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I came in a fashionable, appealing package with tens of others of my kind. I'm identical to each and every one of my neighbors, I'm honestly nothing special, easily replaced. Perhaps it was my glint, the way I shone under your glaring bathroom lights. Possibly my edges and curves, the feel of something rigid softly laid against your skin. Most days I'm not sure why exactly you picked me. I'm so glad you did.
We've become close, Ryan, and you know it. I've watched you in your darkest hours, just one corner of me sticking out enough from my hiding place to catch your tears fall to bedroom carpeted floors. I've watched you complete your homework every night, watched you make your bed on softly rolling Sunday mornings. Once, I watched you finally get to second base. He was cute, you know. I'd like to feel myself brush up against the small of his back, a hand on his shoulder. But something tells me I can't have him. The rose in his cheeks, his blooming smile, you don’t have any of that. He’s too pure for you and I, we both know it.
You know it so well that it eats you alive. You know you’re not worth his time, not worth the effort, not worth it all in all. But that’s okay, Ryan, because I’ll always be here for you. Everyone else will turn away, but my arms will open wide. You just have to choose me. When you do, I’m always so happy for the two of us. Our relationship growing, becoming closer. Sometimes I think we’re inseparable.
The dip of a fresh cut, feeling fatty reserves and skin tight veins run against me. I let thick, clotted blood run past me, slowly sawing my way through your forearms. My sharpest edges dig deep, pushing into arteries, coasting through layers of flaky skin. I’m taken out, dark red stuck to me, glaring in bedside lamp lights. Then dip me in again, grazing edges and soft first layers. Out, in, out, in, flakes of skin held firmly to my blade. You’re a mess, red streams dripping down your legs and onto carpeted floors. You’re lips are turning blue, love. I think we’re finally getting there. Together.
You put me away, cleaning yourself up, but we both know there will be a next time. There always is. You wipe disinfectants over missing chunks of flesh, exposed inner tissues pulsating and reacting away from such irritating substances. A thin layer of bandages curls up around you, just enough to let you sleep. After it scabs over, you’ll never treat it again. We both know this. We both know a lot of things.
He might hate you for this, you know. You’re in love with him, I can tell. I can see the way you look at him, watch you text him under the covers at night. It almost makes me feel a little sorry for what I’ve done. Almost. You would gladly give your life for him. But would he do the same?
I’m an awfully nasty secret to keep. I doubt he’ll ever trust you if he finds out. I doubt you can keep this from him forever. You’re fucked, and we both know it. You’re completely and utterly out of plans. I’m your last escape. My arms will always be open.
This little tiptoed relationship of ours, it’s toxic. Sometimes I feel a tad of remorse watching your eyes dilate, you lick your chapped lips, hands shaking and numb. You can’t properly hold me these days. Fingernails the same darling shade of forget me not blue sweeping your eyelids. Head in the clouds, wrists far more open than your mind. You drift through the day, unease deep set in your movements. Some days I’m not sure how I feel about this anymore. But there’s always a next time, right?
Something tells me he’s given up on you. Or maybe that’s just you giving up on yourself. Giving up, that somber air of reconciliation and surrendering the fight, it’s just swirling around us. You’re cutting deeper, hands shuddering, ocean blue lips. You’ve become as fragile as a glass figurine, the slightest bump sending streaks of midnight skies across your thin skin. Covering your marred skin with layer after layer of thickened fabrics, and still shivering under covers. Something’s changed here, and we both know it.
I think I might feel sorry for what I’m about to do. This delicate figure standing before me, Ryan, you’re not the same. I feel as if I’m supposed to save you somehow, protect you from the world. Maybe there was another way after all. Maybe our story shouldn’t have this ending page. I watch quickly cooling tears coast over your newly defined cheekbones, lips bitten raw and ragged. It’s painful, the way you contort your already small body into a compacted ball, the silent sobs racking what’s left of you. I really don’t want to do this anymore. It looks like you don’t either. But I promised my arms would always be open.
We both know there won’t be a next time. We both know a lot of things. God, Ryan, I’m so sorry.