I Used To Be A Cutter

“I used to be a cutter,” I say, like it happened far away, like "used to" means it's over, like yesterday stayed yesterday. Knowing fully well I relapsed last night. Funny how a sentence can sound so clean when you know exactly what it’s trying to mean. “I used to be a cutter.” I say it like a confession without the confession part, a pretty little sentence covering up an ugly heart. I wake up stiff on a cold bathroom floor, not remembering falling, not remembering much more. The room smells wrong. The floor feels wrong. Everything feels sick, everything feels gone. My ears are still ringing with that high-pitched sound not from outside, but from somewhere inside me, underground. Those screams had no mouth, but somehow they were loud. They filled up my skull like a terrible crowd. My eyes are dry now, though they cried through the night. I squeezed them shut with all of my might, thinking maybe if I shut them tight, I could dream myself backward into something "right" Into “reality.” Whatever that means. But I open my eyes and the room is still there. Cold tiles. Bad air. Nobody. Just me and the silence I wear. Then my stomach turns. Again. I throw up and stare at the floor like even my body doesn't want me anymore. Everything is blurry. Everything is slow. I look at my fingers like they belong to someone I don't know. I try to “wake up” again. I sit up— then fall back down. And suddenly I understand why the room feels so far I've lost too much. So I lie there. Not minutes. Hours. On that cold, smelly floor with the walls standing over me like silent towers. And I tell myself, “Don’t worryy.” I almost smile. “I’ll be up and sane in a bit.” Like this is normal. Like this is fine. Like I haven't spent another night losing my mind! “Just gimme a minute.” One minute. One breath. One lie. One more little performance before I walk outside and pretend I'm alive. Then— there. All done! I pick myself up like nobody ever saw, clean up on my own, because apparently that is what I'm supposed to call "getting better. " I wipe away the night. I fix my face. I put everything back in its proper place. I breathe. I smile. I beam. I become the girl everybody thinks they've seen. “Get it together.” Whatever the hell that means. Because nobody wants the truth when the truth isn't pretty. Nobody wants the girl who can't explain why she's empty. So I become quiet. I become bright. I become "fine." “I used to be a cutter,” I say. And the room stays quiet. No applause. No answer. Just me standing there with the horrible realization that "used to" was a lie. Because I know myself. I know the night. I know the silence. I know how easily the past becomes present when nobody is looking. “I used to be a cutter.” I say it again. Softer this time. Almost like I'm trying to convince the girl in the mirror. But she doesn't believe me. And neither do I. Because the saddest part isn't what happened last night. It's knowing that tomorrow I might smile just as bright, walk into the world like everything is alright, and whisper the same words with that same empty grin “I used to be a cutter.” I say, Knowing fully well I might have to say it again.