I always hated the cold. It hurt.
Made me shake to my core.
Those icy winter mornings where the wind threatens to rip the very skin from your bones.
The damp cold sidewalk after an autumn rain.
It always disgusted me.
The cold would hurt you and sting you until you can’t feel anymore.
I always hated that numb sensation. The dull throbbing pain.
But as I lay here tonight.
Knife against my throat.
The cold steel invoking that very same sensation.
And yet this time it’s comforting.
A shallow reminder that I can still feel.
The feeling of the edge pressed tightly against my skin.
Just a bit more force and I’d be sliced open.
And yet I’m not afraid.
Standing on the line between life and death is peculiar.
It silences the voices. The doubts. The self hatred.
Staring into the face of death brings logic and reason back to the emotional mind of a broken child.
When I’m faced with the option of suicide,
Only then can I truly see my life without self made preconceptions.
Without insecurity and fear.
I always hated the cold.
Yet somehow that feeling calms my shattered mind.