Rose Barton

Flash back to the first time.

When you held the blade,

that cruel piece of metal,

and pressed it to your skin.

Did your heart beat faster?

Did your breath catch in your throat when the first scarlet laceration appeared?

And what about the last time?

when you opened old, worn scars

perhaps still scabbed

hardly healed

and pouring out what you thought were the last of your childish hopes

Were your eyes dull and lifeless

like the rest of your body?

Did you decide as I did

that there was no logic

no reason to the pain?

And bandaged, stitched and swabbed,

did you throw out the stained blade

and learn to

live

again?