The night is long and tedious. I can recall every night I spent awake, slicing my skin, picking away pieces of me like a petal off a flower, watching the clock slowly drag minute by minute. Im always dragged back to the bathtub. Draining my velvet life source, listening to each drop smash against the empty tub. It's so easy to drift back. The tick of my watch, rain dancing against my window, the sound of metal hitting a surface. It brings me there.
Before it was easy to pull myself back. A snap of my elastic band. Two snaps. Twenty. My wrists are bruised, red, ready to burst open. Before, there wasn't a fresh pack of pristine blades, pounding thoughts of slicing, a blade prickling at my skin. It wasn't within reach, it was distant. A memory, a nightmare. I was able to snap back here.
Now I'm there. Im sat in the tub, blades within reach. It feels familiar and easy, the laziness of harming in a tub for minimum clean up. The cold tub pressing against my bare skin, the quiet. But I am not there. I am in bed, in reality.