When I grab scissors from my bedside table,
to draw patterns along the flesh of my thighs,
I try to imagine something beautiful.
I carve daisies and sunflowers into my skin,
like children carve pumpkins at Halloween,
and for a moment my body can bleed out the voices,
until they’re silent.
Sep 20, 2016
Sep 20, 2016 at 6:46 PM UTC
When I grab scissors from my bedside table,
to draw patterns along the flesh of my thighs,
I try to imagine something beautiful.
I carve daisies and sunflowers into my skin,
like children carve pumpkins at Halloween,
and for a moment my body can bleed out the voices,
until they’re silent.
Request permission to use this poem