Little steps

I am standing in front of a mirror, in a hotel room in Tennessee. I called my little brother to tell him that I wanted to hurt myself. He talked me off the roof; now I'm somewhere in the middle, at a height where the rocks would paralyze, but not quite kill me. The view isn't quite as good here. 

I spend my night nitpicking, memorizing every piece of me that I hate. The smell of my skin wanders into my nose and makes my stomach turn, reminds me of every warm mistake it's pressed against. I self-medicate with sleeplessness and stimulants. I am the healthiest strung-out alcoholic you know, always looking for a drug to pass the time. 

I thoughtfully chew the last of these little pills, waiting for my stomach to turn down the volume. My skull is a bitter echo chamber, but I don't even scowl when the chemicals hit my tongue. I'm proud of myself; it's the little steps toward self-control that count.