I usually count
as i go along,
slicing.
I didn't last night
and awoke to a ****** shirt sleeve;
sixteen cuts.
I always cut
in multiples of four.
Subconscious needing
brings into being
streams
of aqueous despondency;
never gone,
never out of reach.
I'm sitting on the edge,
the ultimate precipice
of things that cannot be undone.
I am tarnished,
scarred and bruised
with life's effigies burning
all around me.
Waging war on myself,
my demons,
carving them out of my skin
to reign there
no more.
There's a split in my reality;
twenty months free of chemicals
yet
I still catch myself
along serrated edges.
I usually count
the ditches
in my arm;
worn as badges,
trophies of shame.
Twenty now lie,
lined up,
as a platoon for battle;
purple and healing.
Winning the war,
I let them fade
until new enemies
come to rush my gates
once again.
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 11:41 PM UTC
I usually count
as i go along,
slicing.
I didn't last night
and awoke to a ****** shirt sleeve;
sixteen cuts.
I always cut
in multiples of four.
Subconscious needing
brings into being
streams
of aqueous despondency;
never gone,
never out of reach.
I'm sitting on the edge,
the ultimate precipice
of things that cannot be undone.
I am tarnished,
scarred and bruised
with life's effigies burning
all around me.
Waging war on myself,
my demons,
carving them out of my skin
to reign there
no more.
There's a split in my reality;
twenty months free of chemicals
yet
I still catch myself
along serrated edges.
I usually count
the ditches
in my arm;
worn as badges,
trophies of shame.
Twenty now lie,
lined up,
as a platoon for battle;
purple and healing.
Winning the war,
I let them fade
until new enemies
come to rush my gates
once again.
Self-inflicted wounds produce pain and poetry. Both leave scars.
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