Scars on my arms faded to memories,

faint dirt paths overgrown

with vegetation. Sometimes

I want to carve some new ones,

but don't. Instead I drag

on cheap cigars, pixels,

caffeine and other

more socially acceptable forms

of masochism, like relationships

or political campaigns in the media.



Black under my nails

not from European graphite anymore;

no, just from $3.99 hair dye

and scratching my eyes out.

Haven't picked up a drawing pencil

in almost a year. The closest form

of art I've attempted is grabbing

a chunk of dry hair and hacking it away

with the fury of the insane.



Adrenaline palpitating my heart

not from standing on the lip

of a furious overpass; no,

just from staring at a blank

computer screen, trying to

block out the incessant white noise

of human interaction while

trying to get these words past

the barrier of my mind.

.