Cutting

Before I begin, I want to provide a trigger warning. This piece discusses topics and depictions of self-harm, specifically cutting. Its purpose is not to glorify or romanticize it — instead, it shares what goes on mentally during those moments, so others can better understand the thought process behind it. If you're struggling, know you're not alone. There are resources — mental health lines, friends, family — and I'm here too, because I’ve lived it. Self-harm doesn’t just leave marks on the skin — it leaves lasting emotional scars. It’s not healthy, and it’s never something to take lightly. 

This piece also touches on many parts of my life — my mental health, my identity, and how those parts connect. It’s a complicated story, but I hope sharing it helps create understanding and maybe helps others feel less alone. 

With that, this is “Cutting,” inspired by Stephanie Bennett-Henry.

The knife whispers promises,

soft as shadowed breath—

not in words,

but when my head is too loud,

and the world falls silent.

The blade’s touch is not just hurt —

it’s a hunger, sharp and quiet —

a craving for a feeling so fierce

it blurs the lines between pain and release.

It promises control. 

It makes the ache feel real. 

Feel Brief. 

Breathing becomes possible — a quick escape from burdens too heavy to carry.

Then I hear voices, 

voices only I can hear—cunning, possessive—sharpening, slicing through the quiet. They speak to me:

“I see the chaos — I’ll help you carve a path through it.

Just one mark. Just a little blood. You’ll feel better, finally, even if it hurts.”

Then the voices leave–just like that,

Gone.

The room spins.

The voices return — deeper now.

My head throbs.

Storms rise inside my head —

bright and dark collide without warning,

voices crackle, surge, and fall,

dragging me under and pulling me up.

A pounding as if someone was trying to break in -

To knock down the walls in which I bestowed.

Yet somehow,

I hold onto reality.

The blade doesn’t rush me.

It’s patient —
like a lover who knows exactly where I ache.

It slips beneath the surface,

not with force — but like it’s been here before.

It knows the way back

better than I do.

It clamps a cold collar around my throat, 

a leash of whispered sins dragging me deeper into shadows I call home. 

Dragging me down on trembling knees—willing, undone—
a dominion written in blood.

Sometimes it feels like home—

not warm,

but the place I crawl to

when the world shuts me out.

A cold room.
An open drawer.
A quiet ritual that tells me:
"You're still here.
You're still real.
You're still mine."

It wraps itself around me,

tight as a jealous hand.

Like it doesn’t want anyone else to touch me.

Like it made me,

and now I belong to it.

I don’t cut to die.

I cut when I forget what it means to feel alive.

Desire claws like fire—

a desperate need to feel real,

to chase the fleeting spark

that slips through every touch.
Because the ache inside becomes too much,
and pain on the outside makes it easier to breathe.

Pain, for me, has always been a language.

I bind myself when silence falls—tight enough to feel,

 too afraid to ask for touch.
 

Shame speaks louder than comfort.

But silence only stretches so far before tearing.

What I can’t ask for,

I carve.

What I won’t say,

my skin speaks.

Blood blooms — a dark flower in a still garden.

 It says everything I can’t.
Everything I’m too afraid to explain.

Each cut whispers to the night. 

Each scar writes a silent chapter, unread by the world.

And for a moment —
just a moment —
it feels like peace.

But peace never lasts —

not when it’s written in blood.

When the blood dried,

I was still me.

Still broken.

Still heavy.

Nothing changed —

except now, the pain ran deeper –

not physically,

but emotionally.

Then guilt — heavy, unrelenting —

reminding me I’ve done it again.

I cover the scars.
Long sleeves in summer.
Excuses wrapped in winter’s chill.
“I’m cold,” I say,
when really, I’m just ashamed.

One day,

I want to wear short sleeves, let the sun touch my skin—without flinching.

To see my scars and feel proud,

not of pain, but survival.

To breathe free of past’s grip,

and explain if I choose —

without shame.

One day, I want peace.

Sometimes, the scars speak —

naming me beautiful and real.

For a while, I believed them.

Scars show — the pain inside doesn’t.

But I’m learning they don’t love me —

Just want me small, silent, bleeding.

They call to me in quiet moments,

soft as breath, sharp as memory —

“Come back,” they say,

“We’re the only ones who made you feel.”

And some nights,

I almost do.

Maybe because I miss the pain —

Maybe because I miss the silence that came after.

They whisper I need them —

that I’m only beautiful when broken.

 but I’m learning to love the parts of me
that were never meant to bleed to be seen.

One day, I’ll stop listening —

Entirely.

 And maybe,
when I wear short sleeves,
the scars won’t speak at all.

 But I continue to pull my sleeves down,
like trying to erase the map
of where the pain has been—
a silent armor against questions I don’t want to answer.

Like a jack-o’-lantern — 

hollowed out, 

smile carved on,
light flickering inside,
but no one ever asks what was taken out to make it glow.

I have no friends —

only passing shadows.

I watch others laugh, aching to be seen.

Drawn to many, yet unseen,

a heart split —

longing to rest where I feel whole.

I want real connection, 

but how do you ask for it when you’re so used to being alone?

I used to believe no one could understand.

I thought a new school meant a fresh start.

But loneliness doesn’t unpack.

Another day. Another night. The same fight inside.

I don’t hide my scars to forget —

I hide them because I’m scared someone will ask.

What would I even say?

That I hurt myself to survive?

That silence gets so loud, I have to carve my way out of it?

Sometimes people notice — 

glance too long, question half-spoken — 

then look away.

because knowing hurts.

So I continue,

laughing louder,

pulling my sleeves a little lower,

because ‘I’m fine’ doesn’t require questions.

Outside calm. 

Inside, a storm. 

A hidden version breaks in the dark, holding reasons to stay.

Maybe that version came from being wired differently —

A mind flooding with feeling—or dry as dust.

a mirror trained so perfectly,

I forget what I really look like.

No one asks how he is—

he just survives.

He’s the version I carry in silence —

tucked away beneath long sleeves.

I avoid mirrors — 

not because I hate what I see,

but because I don’t recognize him.

This skin doesn’t tell my story —

just folds and shadows,

shaped into someone I never chose.

I’m a demiboy —

halfway between what they see and what I feel.

Not quite him, not quite nothing —

just me, trying to make sense

of a body that never asked for labels.

The version I carry in silence
isn't just sad —
he’s wired different.
A brain spinning too fast, 

too loud, 

never off.

 ADHD isn't fun.
It's a thousand thoughts screaming,
but none of them stick.
It's forgetting the point mid-sentence
and replaying every conversation after like a crime scene.
It's wanting to speak
but interrupting instead.

And autism —
isn't what people think it is.
It’s masking so well,
they say “you don’t seem autistic.”
But what they mean is:
"You’ve learned how to disappear in public."
It’s rehearsing every expression,
every gesture,
until you forget which ones are yours.
It’s never knowing the rules,
but getting punished for breaking them anyway.
It’s silence that isn’t empty —
it’s full of confusion,
full of everything.

The world was never built for a brain like mine.
So I built armor.
Long sleeves.
Fake smiles.
Hypervigilance.
A blade.

My brain doesn’t rest —

Every tick of a clock, every click of a pen,

it claws at me.

Misophonia they call it —

like drowning in small sounds.

PTSD paints memories over the present.

OCD demands rituals — blades for control, not just relief.

I didn’t hurt myself for drama. I hurt because chaos needed an outlet—a clear signal in static.
Because sometimes, pain is the only thing that makes sense
when nothing else does.

Hunger became my language—
a quiet way to disappear.
Counting calories like sins—

each skipped meal a win against the mirror.

I wasn’t trying to be thin —

just empty,

because empty felt safer than being seen.

The smile isn’t mine.

Some days, just carrying myself feels impossible.

Not a cry for attention —

a cry for stillness in a storm that never ends.

Some victories don’t shine —

getting out of bed,

answering a text,

leaving the blade untouched.

That’s courage.

Some nights, holding on feels like the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

But I do it.

Even when it hurts.

Part of me still wants to see tomorrow —

That hope keeps me going.

But I’m tired of lying, hiding, hating this trapped body.

I want to heal, not just the cuts, 

but the reasons behind them.

There’s a version of me I haven’t met yet —

one who wakes up without dread,

who feels pain and doesn’t need a blade to process it,

who smiles and means it.

I don’t know when I’ll meet him…

but I want to.

Until then, I’m learning to water what I used to let die. 

I want to know okay.
To wake up without dreading the day.

That day isn’t here yet.

But I believe it’ll come.

The knife’s promises are loud…

but I’m learning to be louder —

than the blade, the shame, the silence.

Maybe one day,

I won’t need to speak through the scars.

So for now, he stays — 

Long sleeves, 

hoodie drawn, 

pants pulled low,

 quiet steps, 

eyes ahead.

Silent. Invisible.