When I made that first cut,
Up and up in paper layers of skin,
It was tough- but not enough,
To tell of the roughness contained within.

My body was prickling,
Intoxicating, poisoning the girl within,
Waiting, fading, hating,
So I bled it dry.

Night after night the leech of the knife
Fed on that beast that lived inside,
The beast that craved other beasts,
Her cheeks on the warmth of their thighs.

Her cure, this beast? She just needs a man by her side.

So she cried and cut and bled and cried,
Dampened her spirit, her soul and her pride,
With pink blood from her scars, those pretty silver lines,
The ones that dance, ribbons before your eyes.

Those scars that are closed now,
Raised, hard and white,
But may I ask you how,
How can I sleep at night?

A touch and a look,
Not into her eyes,
Into mine,
How do you look away,
When you never began?

What if we sang a song for sadness?
Forgot about the fog
And welcomed in the wind?
Whistled with its melancholy
Or danced to its tune?

Would that not be a better world?
Where we sang before we sobbed.

"Take a moment for me." She said,
My reluctant reply,
"You first."