It’s tiny
and metal.
No air for breathing.
No door
for leaving.
Only I can open it
and for now
it’s closed.

My cage holds many things.
The names and faces of
my dad’s ex girlfriends;
the time I threw a milk carton
at my best friend;
you.

I tried to put the cuts
inside my cage,
tried to escape from the temptation
of every
Knife.
Razer.
Key.
But you wouldn’t allow it.
You said you were happy there
amongst my buried memories.

“So pick
and choose.
Only one of us
can live in this hole
in your stomach.
Pick
your battles.
Choose
wisely.”

I cursed you
and then closed the cage.
I set out
in search of another
place inside me
to stash
the cuts.
But they were stubborn.

“You like the blood,”
they said.
“You like watching it drip
slowly
down your body.”

“No,”
I said.
“Leave me,
I don’t like getting stains
(on my heart)
on my clothes.”

“But you like
how it stings,”
they whispered.
“You like running your
fingers over them.
One
by one.
You like power
(and pity).”

“Stop it!”
I shoved them into
another box.
Wooden
this time.

They were stuck for a while
but I could hear them crying
(alongside me).
“Don’t we make you feel
good?”
The sound came quivering out of the box.
Whenever I was alone
(or in the kitchen).

I cracked.
I took my knife
and I sawed them out of the box
in my stomach
by carving it
slowly.

“I’m sorry,”
I said.
“You’re right.
He was right.”

Pick
and choose.
Pick
and
choose.
Pick
the scabs.
Choose
the razer.