I used to paint pretty pictures on my skin.
My brush collection was wide,
Filled with box cutter razors, the blades out of pencil sharpeners, and knives.
I used to melt my shaving razors and rip the blades from their homes,
Nessled them deep within my flesh to warm their steel bodies with my blood.

Am I painting pretty again, Mommy?
Am I making you proud yet, Grammy?
Looking into the glass windows of my home like they were funhouse mirrors,
Twisting and distorting my hourglass figure until I could no longer recognize my own skin.

I used to own a hall of mirrors.
Collected my demons behind the glass.
Big and small,
Tall and short,
Thick and thin,
Each mirror distorting your body image more than the last.

I used to collect knives.
Steak knives, butter knives, utility knives, butcher knives.
Each blade glistening with crimson.

Oh how I miss my children.

I bet you think it rude to speak of my past gory collections so fondly.
As if cutting myself open to let the bees rattling inside my veins free was the animal abuse.
Well I'll have you know I've finally set them all free.

Now my true healing may begin.

Now I collect flowers off the side of the road.
I collect feathers
I collect poems
I collect words
I collect men
And finally,
I collect myself