like, now...

It doesn’t matter how many days go by. Every time her stress level reaches its peak, every time she reaches a new low, her mind goes straight to the basket on her dresser. It holds the knife. The knife whose blade has “helped” her drown her sorrows a thousand times before. That blade that left scars on more than just her body. She always thinks of it, though it hasn’t moved from its plain sight hiding place in over a year. She’s forced herself not to depend on it, out of fear more than anything else. But she has not learned new ways to deal with her pain. Or maybe she has, but she chooses to hold it in all the same. She still feels like she has no one to trust, least of all herself. Maybe some of the ways she deals with it now are just as bad as the knife, but more acceptable. Maybe the mixture of blood and tears is better than the alternatives she’s finding. Maybe. But maybe not. She’s not sure of that just yet, she may never be. For now she will attempt, once again, to forget about the knife. To resist its addictive pull. Reminding herself that it only ends in tears and disappointment. But no matter how many times she says no, she always thinks of it. Every single time. ~ me, Do NOT palgarize my work! Esp. this. I may allow you use it but ask 1st.