Heavy

The first time was an accident, the next hundred or so weren't. I had walked past a metal railing that had a piece sticking out, and it made an impressive scratch along my left forearm for a couple weeks. After a while, I noticed that the usual deep-seated pain and emptiness in my chest wasn't as overwhelming as it usually was. I began wanting it; using anything I could get my hands on, including my nails I grew out specifically for this reason. I hid them under long sleeves and bandages, and nobody was the wiser. It went on for four more years, without anyone noticing, before I realized it was only a temporary relief, and the gaping abyss in my soul wouldn't go away just from that. There was a point where I wanted to go further, but I stopped myself, and it has been a short three years since I stopped from forcing myself to accept that it wouldn't solve anything. All because of a little accident.