You departed when I was so young I’ve no memories to speak of.
Mom assures me that you cared me, but spectral affections are not real love.

She says I have your sense of style, and worry much like you
But Dad to me is just an idea, no man to compare it too.

I lack you jet-black curls, and my face is much like Mom’s
Yet I feel no earthly comforts in the bottle or the psalms.

I missed you so desperately when I was young, addled by your death.
And while I’ve learned to live without, there’s sorrow in each breathe.

You see I’ve gained no solace, my suffering never done,
For I’m reminded of your image daily, it’s there in the speculum.


I’ve tried escaping many ways, but always return the troubles.
Shattered many a mirror in my attempts, gaining only ****** knuckles.

When my loved ones see me crying they think I offer masculine lies,
But I can assure all those around me, there’s something in my eye.

As I contemplate my relapse, I look at the blade. “Stainless steel” it says. But soon I would make a liar of it. For as I stained it with my blood it would not allow me to steal away to a tranquil place. As I draw upon my forearms like a canvas with a pallet of crimson and sorrow, I only wish I could be washed clean like my paintbrush. And as I leak my very essence from trenches dug by depression and malice I hope with all my heart I can have the strength to stop painting. My scars now are like museum pieces, people stop to look at them, offer theories as to their existence and purpose, and move on. None of the critics seem to like my art, in fact they tell me it’s awful, but they do nothing to stop its creation. I sob and beg the deaf ears of the universe for strength or hope, a new spectrum of colors to paint with and create something new of myself. But I am left with only crimson and steel. I needed a release, but not like this.