I’ve always been told that

the first cut is the deepest.

and for the longest time,

I believed that to be true.

It wasn’t until it was me

lying helpless in a hospital bed

ready to hear the devastating sound

of my own flatline

that I finally realised

how terribly wrong that was.

 

Eight years ago,

a young girl.

Crying, screaming,

lying cold on the tiles

of the shower floor,

locked in solitude with only

the water flowing down my back

to keep me company.

I was nine years old.

Hands shaking uncontrollably

almost as fast as my chest,

razor pressed up against my wrist.

Swiping sideways,

my skin was torn.

I hurt so much. So. Damn. Much.

The razor fell to the floor immediately.

I hated myself. I was so weak.

I couldn’t even draw blood.

I went to bed unharmed that night.

That was my first cut.

 

Eight years later,

a young girl.

Crying, barely breathing,

lying cold on the mattress

of a hospital bed,

locked in solitude with only

the IV flowing through my veins

to keep me company.

To keep me alive.

I’m only seventeen.

Hand so steady

as is my heavy chest,

blade pressed up against my wrist.

Swiping vertically this time

so they can’t stitch me up.

I didn’t feel a thing. Not a damn thing.

I had fallen to the floor immediately.

I hated myself. I was so weak.

I couldn’t even get myself to feel.

I got rushed to the hospital dying that night.

That was my last cut.

 

Contrary to what I’ve been told;

The first cut is not the deepest.

The first cut hurts the most,

but it only gets worse from there.

Now that it’s me

lying helpless in a hospital bed

ready to hear the devastating sound

of my own flatline

I have finally realised that

The cut that is the deepest

is the last.