Never, never again?
Not on nights filled with quivering stars,
or during dawn's maiden brightness
or afternoons of sacrifice?

Or at the edge of a pale path
that encircles the farmlands,
or upon the rim of a trembling fountain,
whitened by a shimmering moon?

Or beneath the forest's
luxuriant, raveled tresses
where, calling his name,
I was overtaken by the night?
Not in the grotto that returns
the echo of my cry?

Oh no. To see him again --
it would not matter where --
in heaven's deadwater
or inside the boiling vortex,
under serene moons or in bloodless fright!

To be with him...
every springtime and winter,
united in one anguished knot
around his ****** neck!

I look at my cuts
my scabs, my scars
that cover my arms and legs.
Each one a story of my pain.
My family looks at me weirdly
'why would you wear long pants
and long sleeve shirts
in the middle of summer?'
my "friends" have heard so many excuses
for the blood.

I should stop.
I could.

But when I look at my cuts
my scabs, my scars
I am reminded of the release
that cutting gives me.
That moment when the sweet pain
snatches you from the blackness in your soul
and the beautiful red runs down your arm.
And the painful tingling hugs you all day.

But I won't stop.
I can't.

Because when I look at what I've done
it calms me down.
Reminds me that even though everyone else
leaves
I still have my razors, my safety pins, my scissors.
That will hold me, when I can't see
through the blackness of my soul.