In the mirror of my spirals,
hazel perceptions translate
candid reflections of flesh
once mistaken for wood,
carvings of a surrendered soul,
a spirit left less than whole,
of when depression gladly paid
its miserable ******* toll.

Dark jagged lines imprinted
across skin once pure,
stigmas of the past
reminding me that storms
can always be darker,

but you know, they can
always be clearer, too.

Medicinal steel awaits
the shadows of history,
eager for my touch,
for the thrill of the slice;
distraction through mutilation:
humanity’s haunted vice,

wherein I am not looking
to ease the pain,
but to intensify,
to charge an overload
on my overworked brain.

Reflecting reflections reflected,
I reflect on the repercussions
of thoughts lost too deep
within its own mind.