Prompt by Illogical Being
”Pick a favorite object that has useful or sentimental value. Write this object a letter of appreciation.”
It is a puzzled course that our little world has taken. Not very much one that you saw coming when you were substituting buttons in my denim overalls (yes, both the brown and the blue ones, you have been helpful, I give you that), shiny and silvery when the sun or any other source of light spared you some of their luminescence.
I’ve used you for crafts, and also while sewing things, I’ve made little moons and lockets and creatures out of you — but never, dear safety pin(s), have I used you for that very thing in your name; safety. Now, I know you may be taking me for one of those morons who take things too literally — hell, then I’ll be a double moron if that makes you feel more powerful an object — but how, in all simplicity of your metallic being, are you safe? How are you more than a needle, curled and polished and with a little lock on your head to keep you closed? How are you more than just a weapon hidden within its being?
I suppose I ought to stop teasing you before you grow disgusted of the cutesy little creatures I’ve made out of you. As a matter of fact, I’m growing quite disgusted myself. I’m growing disgusted of the too-many ways that I can take advantage of you with when you’ve only been good in one…
Approximately fifteen minutes ago you did a glorious job in soothing away some of the incessant throbbing within my limbs. Needless to say it is just some psychosomatic outcome of all the things stuck in this head of mine. But you, my dear, have handled it so well I feel bad I cannot reward you with anything.
You are better than the anti-depressants I have forgotten to take for about a week now. You are better than the three — or maybe four or five — different kinds of sleeping pills I have tested. You are better than the evil, liquid creature coursing through my veins, telling me, whispering in its delicate, frail voice about how I am not but another woman suffering from self-inflicted madness, turning each and every slightly metallic and sharp object into a weapon against myself. How sickening it is that my weapon, my remedy, is you — you and the lovely minute, yet fulfilling pain you create when piercing the skin of my wrist.
You could never have me killed. Never. You give me exactly what I want without a risk, always drawing just enough blood for me to see it, for it to hurt, for me to feel my pulse radiate from my cuts instead of my heart…
(For making me despise myself.)