The first time is more of an accident.
You didn't plan it,
but it happened.
You had thought about it.
Considered it.
But didn't imagine you'd sum up the...
what?
Courage?
Nerve?
Stupidity?
Something happens.
A fight. Or an embarassment.
Or a wandering thought that carries too much weight.
You pull out the lonely sharp object.
Put it in position.
Trudge it across your baby soft skin.
The blood beads on the surface.

You only do it when necessary.
At first.
Soon you do it when you're bored.
Then you're hooked.
You think about it all the time.
And want to do it everywhere.
Math class tempts you to carve into your flesh
with the tip of the compass.
In English you feel the worthlessness crush you
and long to bleed the pain out.

You eventually look like
you've hogtied a blackberry bush
and the shame stops you
from reaching out for help.
But it's not like anyone would care anyway.