I usually count
as i go along,
slicing.
I didn't last night
and awoke to a ****** shirt sleeve;
sixteen cuts.

I always cut
in multiples of four.

Subconscious needing
brings into being
streams
of aqueous despondency;
never gone,
never out of reach.

I'm sitting on the edge,
the ultimate precipice
of things that cannot be undone.

I am tarnished,
scarred and bruised
with life's effigies burning
all around me.

Waging war on myself,
my demons,
carving them out of my skin
to reign there
no more.

There's a split in my reality;
twenty months free of chemicals
yet
I still catch myself
along serrated edges.

I usually count
the ditches
in my arm;
worn as badges,
trophies of shame.

Twenty now lie,
lined up,
as a platoon for battle;
purple and healing.

Winning the war,
I let them fade
until new enemies
come to rush my gates
once again.