The scars are still on my thighs.

The knife is still in my hand.

Even though it’s in a dumpster 6 years ago,

It beckons me from on the shelf at the store where I bought it.

Do you know the heartbreak

Of holding temptation

And setting it down?

Of throwing depression into a dumpster

And having it follow you home?

The hopelessness of knowing

The knife is not an object,

But an idea you can’t get rid of.

The knife becomes your fingernails,

Becomes alcohol,

Becomes a fight you didn’t mean to have,

Becomes the mirror you stand in front of

While you tear yourself apart.

Becomes you.

I am the knife,

And the dumpster,

And the mirror.

I am the pain,

And the healing.

The depression, 

And the overcoming.