i don't really know
what happens biologically
in the give of skin and nerves and flesh
against blade
i know the chorus in my head-
the cuts- bright, blinding slicing
i could draw the lines over and over
until it doesn't hurt anymore
until i quiet the voice by the name of selfishness
and a thousand other titles; pain
hatred
guilt
i know the difference
between a slit that can leave a scar
and one that will disappear
i know the pattern of the lines on my skin
and the diluted red
down the drain