Written July 15, 2013

I remember the struggle.
I remember the torment,
the fear, the despair.
How could I feel so small,
but so large at the same time?

That basement was my sanctuary
        and my hell.
Where I laced up my shoes so much
        I didn’t even sweat.
Where I dropped to my knees and prayed
        my fingers could cleanse me.
Where I found silence and solace
        in a pair of scissors.

Faux leather jacket sleeves could hide my wounds,
and a “normal” weight could quell concern.
I wasn’t dead outside.

But every time I walked those stairs,
I hoped I would be.

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