It and Me: A Story About Self-Harming
By G. E.
It made its way into my bedroom when I was 14. And it sat on my desk, where it should. It had a special place in a tray on a shelf in a drawer.
But, of course, it didn’t stay there. It crept slowly towards my bed. It would only stay a while before it’d go back to its spot. But nevertheless, it’s movements became much more frequent, and longer.
When I was 15, it moved houses. It came and lived much closer to me, in a new spot. It lived in my bedside drawer.
Today, I want to tell you a story. A story of seventy-three strips of paper, a snaplock bag, the moon and me. This is the story of what a wooden deck feels like at night, what the wind whispers at two in the morning, and how it feels to lie in bed with It. To sleep with it. To share yourself with it. To give in to it.