IV. Crimson

It's not about the way it hurts--
it's about the way I bleed,
the way my skin
splits and geysers.

A deluge of red
leaches from pale, marred arms,
adheres to cotton sleeves
like a seething tentacle
affixed to the stern of a ship
(when I get home from school and undress,
my skin will peel away
with the rest of my clothes.)

But at the first sign of healing,
I will take my razor blade from
wherever I've hidden it
(Under my bra strap,
pressed between the
mattress and the box spring,
tucked inside the alcove
of a hollowed-out book)
and tear myself anew,
watch with morbid tranquillity
as tidal waves of crimson
surge from my veins
as they threaten to destroy
the very body from
which they were birthed.

(And this is how the drowning begins.)