Burn

     No one--except him but he hasn't seen the scars--knows about the times I held a needle against the kitchen stove, let it simmer on Med. for several minutes, and pressed it against the top of my wrist, opposite the bony curve that defines my arm. No one ever saw the smile on my face, the curve on my lips, the light in my eyes. No one heard the stove top creak as I grew inpatient and turned the heat knob on High.

     No one--not even him and I can't imagine letting him see the scars--knows about the rest of them. They don't remember, as I do with vividness, the half hour I spent in the bathroom dismantling a disposable and fishing out its blades.

     No one read the notes, they remain[ed] oblivious to the signs.

     Sweaters in summer.

     I raised a brow in disbelief and restrained anger.

     Withdrawal, isolation.

     A long-sleeved closet speaks volumes.

     Lack of interest in hobbies.

     I don't think anyone realized it was on purpose. Even I didn't believe it was an over-dose. Only afterward, years afterward, did he describe the high mortality rates. I replied with disbelief, refraining from saying "Well, I didn't die."