Cleaning up my room.
Open a wardrobe that’s been closed for too long.
As old sketchbooks stack on the floor,
my hand reaches to touch a sharp blade
and a knife makes old memories bloom.
Everything feels red as words leave my throat,
the music on my headphones far away,
my body lost somewhere a few years ago.

A kid stealing a knife from the kitchen,
keeping it hidden and close out of instinct,
like the cat that stops eating when he feels death’s approach.

No scars fill my arms now,
but sometimes their texture reminds me of that time,
where I was a push away from falling into an addiction
that spills blood out of your system like pain went with it
and leaves marks on it that no words can take away.