she handed me a chopping board
wrapped in cheap red paper,
with a card tucked neatly inside:
“since you like to slice yourself,
why not make it useful?”
merry christmas.
i stared at it—
wooden, plain,
cleaner than i’ve ever felt.
everyone else
pretended to laugh.
or worse—
pretended nothing happened.
no one stopped her.
no one looked at me.
i was thirteen
and bleeding invisibly.
she jokes like i’m not alive,
like my pain is some inside gag
she shares with herself
while i sit there,
swallowing the sound of my own heartbeat
because it’s the only thing i know
that hasn’t turned against me.
i started hurting myself
when she moved in.
not for drama.
not for show.
but because the ache in my chest
had nowhere else to go.
my skin became
a secret diary
she somehow still read.
they won’t let me get help.
say i’m too young,
too fragile,
too… dramatic.
but i’m old enough
to wake up alone in a dorm bed,
wanting to disappear
before the day even begins.
i pay for my own classes
because she says i’m too stupid
to waste money on.
i win races
because running is the only time
i feel like i’m moving away from her
fast enough.
sometimes i run
until my lungs burn.
until my legs forget
they belong to a girl
who flinches at kindness
because it feels like a setup.
i don’t want revenge.
i don’t want her to hurt.
i just want a birthday
without fear.
a christmas
without cruelty.
a life
where love doesn’t come with teeth.
and maybe—
just maybe—
a version of myself
who can look in the mirror
and see more
than what she tried to carve out of me.
18:11pm / this poem took all day to write
