These Nights

These are the nights that are the worst.

My naked body lays, unable to hide
The scars left from my past
That I stare so intently at,
noticing every detail I hadn’t noticed before,
Like how that one is paler and sticks out
And there’s a barely-noticeable indent where that one is.

And I ask myself:
Do I really want more?

The blade is held tightly in my hand,
Prepared to slice,
But also willing to be shoved aside.

I eye the area in which I imagine
The skin being forced open by the silver sharp and blood seeping out.
Gently, I trace the lines I would make?
With my naturally inch-long nails.
Then I push harder—
Hard enough to leave a slight mark that only I can see.
That seems to please me for the time being,
So I put away my weapon,
Hoping the urge doesn’t surface again,
But knowing it will.