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.