I understood cutting.

I could take a sharp object-
say, a rusty box-cutter-
and delve into the soft flesh of my arm,
releasing blood-
at least my body is more than skin deep.

The predictable cause and effect was comforting,
easy to understand.

Apparently, this is not a good thing to understand.

It is good to understand how to make friends,
to maintain relationships.
It is good to understand that your family
loves and cares about you.
It is good to understand your goals and motivations.
It is good to understand that nobody is autonomous,
that everybody must play by the rules of life,
and should be governed by compassion.

I never understood any of this.

I understood blood.

Now, I guess that I don't.

Where does that leave me?

Sitting in the therapist's waiting room,
with only the scars on my arms,
or an outdated Oprah magazine to stare at.
Good thing I'm probably high-
that's a depressing scene.

Because while I acknowledge those other things,
I still don't understand them.

Cutting made Sense.

Life does Not.

I always hated "Alice in Wonderland."