Sometimes, you stare at your skin and you want to tear it off. Sometimes you slice into it, in lieu of tearing. Sometimes you remember being in the hospital, and all you can think of is how they ever deemed you safe enough to let out. Sometimes this makes you panic, so you cut more. Sometimes, when you panic, you hear things that aren’t there. You panic more. You cut more.

Eventually you look at yourself. 5 days without a shower. 3 without a toothbrush. Wearing the same “pajamas” you’ve worn all week. You look at yourself and see all this blood running down your stomach and you don’t understand why you’re still here. Still begging for someone to take you in and hold you.

Even if that someone is the bed in room 436.

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