Self-Mutilation

Written by: avery scarcelli

Wet blades of freshly clipped grass stick to my feet as I make my way through the dark to the pair of arms that are my home.

The very essence of my being swells with warmth as I enter the magnetic field that surrounds you, continuously drawing me in as my mind is now at ease. This is where I’m supposed to be.

As our souls collide with the slightest contact my anguish dissipates into a thousand particles released high into the sky, a sensation unattainable via any other means.

The realization of what it means to be alive radiates onto my body like the first warming rays of spring emerging after the dreariest winter.
 
Some may say this is the most potent drug I have ever come to know—as addiction and the corresponding withdrawal symptoms are immediate and all consuming.

Only I’ve never been as sober as the moments I am home—in these arms that provide my own with strength when they become weak, the arms that shelter me when I’m filled with fear, the arms that are my guidance to everything that I’ve ever wanted to be.

We are naïvely unaware of which parts of ourselves are incomplete until we have gradually combined with another as one, and then post-discovery we will never be able to forget.

My body and mind perpetually yearn to be within the realm of your own long after the pieces of you that fit into the cracks of my essence like putty are removed.

Thus my wounds remain exposed for far longer than I knew was possible as a girl filled with holes attempts to live, at best survive, in these series of houses that are not a home.

They are not your arms.