Confessions of a Cutter

I cut again.
I didn't mean too  I've been clean since March. The blade stayed tucked away in the drawer for months and months, spring and summer and fall. It whispered to me, husky breaths, dark calls. I picked it up for the first time last night, trailing it along my arms. I know better than to cut there now, it's too obvious. I still have the scars from a really bad fit last year, ten months ago.  Mom knows where to check.
This morning, in the shower. Cold. Shivering. Goosebumps. I made six tiny incisions, drawing only tiny beads of blood along my hipbones. The cuts were hardly an inch long. An angry red patch now, hidden by the band of my underwear.

My dad bought bagels. I love bagels, and he knows it.
I've heard bagels are worse than doughnuts.
Still I have to resist the urge to run downstairs and just stuff five of them in my mouth at once, just eat without caring.
No. I tie myself down with ropes and chains, bound to this blog. Bound to you, skinny girls, and the promise that I won't eat. I won't eat. It's a chant. Say it.