Carving Hurt

I stopped cutting myself the day I realized I couldn’t turn my body into a memorial. I could’t force it to remember pain. Bodies were meant to heal, to forget. I was meant to heal, to forget. I couldn’t turn my body into an alarm clock, a trigger warning. I couldn’t force myself to remember betrayal, and the sting of stigma. I couldn’t carve the heart ache out of me. My body was not a chalk board. I couldn’t write myself a cheat sheet to avoid pain. I will hurt easily. I will scar easily. But lessons were not meant to be hammered into the skin. Blood was never meant to be the price of mistakes. I stopped cutting, stopped hurting when I realized some hurt marks you, penetrating more than your skin. Some hurt owns you, and there is no amount of cutting to cut that out.