Featured Artwork: “Tears” by Danielle Hark
I never knew rage before. Anger, disappointment, frustration, but never rage. It starts from the abdomen and builds with fury as it travels through your torso and into your arms. Your biceps and chest pulsate with flashes of energy like lightning waiting to strike.
I panted as my eyes scanned my apartment: furniture flipped, mail covering the floor, my mattress thrown from the bed. I wanted to destroy something, anything. The mirror caught my eye.
“Not the mirror. I could never explain that.”
No amount of destruction satisfied the pain that ached within me. My blinding rage was a vivid red and a harsh black. It gave birth to my darkest urges—images, momentary fantasies of ending my betrayer’s life. I danced with the darkness of my soul. I wasn’t a person anymore. I feared what I might do.
I acted on impulse. I acted in desperation. Seething agony instantly emerged from my body like a loose smoke. Overcome with calmness, I went limp.
This is why people do it. This is why they cut.
Agony and suicidal ideation were my master for months. But, in that moment, neither was a match for the sleek, sharp edge of a knife.
Exacerbated, I glanced at a small cut on my forearm, and recalled my rational thoughts as I took the smooth, deliberate action, “You can’t leave a scar. When you get through this, you won’t want people to know this happened.”