she sits, rolls up her sleeves and looks
at snakes and worms that crawl and mar
her peach milk skin, thinking
why don't they see

they all look, they all ******* stare
but they don't see and never will
they'll never see past the
barbed-wire lines

the white, pink, purple crosses
a barrier between her and the whole
of humanity, that looks
and yet never sees

she cannot count the times she has
held a knife, blade, pin, nails
to her wretched flesh and
prayed for courage

watches it bite and release, slow,
the ghosts and pain that swell
in her martyred blood and
still she cannot count

the nights she has prayed for
strength to press down and
go deeper, through the
milky layers until

she finds blue veins, and gazes
as they empty, pouring out
her life, and giving her
the one thing she craves

she wishes it wouldn't hurt to sink
a blade into her corpse, wishes
skin would split with
impersonality

wishes it could be like cutting an apple
she could disconnect and go deep
enough that her own blood
would be her freedom

she wants to steal the power from
those voices in her head, that
her body didn't betray her
with ****** survival

she sits, holds a blade, reflecting
a forearm bared of all but its
rugged scars, reaches out
for that numbing bottle

distract the mind, ensnare senses
delay reactions and slice through
the fragile skin coating
her beloved release

go deep enough to know it's real
she desires to go deeper until
she falls into something,
somewhere unreal

now, just imagine, how much pain
each day, each second causes
to make that feel like the best
the only option

and picture this, that every night
she draws closer, drunken
dreaming and ever closer to
losing it one night.

*© Tara India.