(Written at age 16.)
Standing in the kitchen
Holding a knife
I stop and think
About the friends in my life
About what I am going to do now
They will question me for sure
For it’s happened before, and this time they’ll just say
“Forget it! For her, there is no cure!”
“Kriti,” they’ll say, “why don’t you understand?
We’re always here for you.
You don’t need to inflict pain on yourself
To get through times that are blue.”
They’re right, I know;
I don’t need to hurt myself.
I can decide to stop right now
And put the knife back on the shelf.
But I also know that somehow by doing it
My frustration is released,
My depression subsides a little,
My rage is appeased.
And so though I know it’s meaningless and wrong,
I also know I’m down.
So steel touches skin,
And red oozes out of brown.