The PinMature

In the car, sitting across from me, was a pin. The tip of the pin glittered most enticingly. I was reminded that sharp objects seemed to bring relief, if only temporary.

I was scared, as I'd been the other three times I'd had a compulsion to self-harm. But this time, I wasn't as scared as I'd been.

I took the pin and drew its edge across my wrist, matching it with the other two scars. There. I'd done it. I wasn't reliant on self-harm, but it did seem to work.

And then, the gravity of what I was doing struck me. Hard.

"Oh, God," I whispered, "Don't let me do this again." I didn't want to be addicted to self-harm! I didn't want to be addicted to anything! I didn't want to be dependent on something so damaging as cutting! "God, help me! I don't want to do this!"

But at the same time, I didn't want to give it up. I'd only been flirting with self-harm, but already, I was having a hard time saying "no."

The End

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