What would have happened if I knocked on their door,
With blood running down my thighs.
Letting them see what I was going through,
Would I have been on the bus the next day.
On the way to school,
Wondering if anyone cared .
Would I be here now,
I know they would have gotten me extreme help.
And maybe I would have gotten that help,
Maybe I wouldn’t be cutting still,
Wondering if anyone cares .

3am, everyone is sleeping,
In a dark room sits a girl in bed shaking.
Looking for anything to numb the pain,
And quiet the heavy thoughts in her brain.

She has never had this brave idea before,
She goes and sneaks in her brothers drawer,
Pulls out his sharp army blade,
And runs to the bathroom where reality fades.

From an old art set she finds her own tool.
Continues to treat her stomach and thighs cruel.
She discovered this way to cope in 9th grade,
And now in 11th doesn’t let her scars fade.

Lines marked so neatly
Parallel to each other
On my leg horizontally
Each of them redder

Like pencils lined up
Neatly in a row.
Without any breakup
All perfectly so

Some are faded
Some fresher
Some lighter
And some harsher

Drawn carefully
To bleed and stain
Makes me have safety
To feel the pain

~
I could resist
I could!
Oh surely
I swear I could.

I need no anesthesia
No Anesthesia or numbness
Darling~
Please

Come over me
  My Dr. Sweet Anggie please
    I implore you!
Take your razor-edged scalpel
   Only you!
Make a safe incision.

With your soft warm hand
   Wrench my heart away from me!
 Detach my pumper & leave me whole.
    Undo my pumper with my brain
  So I may cease this non-physical war!

 Let the blood flow torrentially & free,
   Like lunatic waters in breaking dams &
 rivers.
I care not!
  I want it nevermore.

Take it it’s yours!

I want it nevermore
  Take it it’s yours.

~~

On the Jester's neck was a blade
What will he do? Run and evade?
No, he made fun of its size:
This one wouldn't cut me into dice—
A funny way to the gates of paradise,
Yet a brilliant way to make one never fade.

His blade
is a stainless mirror
with edges tempered
to bend and breathe
a mortal whisper.

It cuts perfectly inside
the one who crosses the night,
restlessly tearing its blinding veil
for a glimpse of tomorrow's light.

The wanderer sleeps
with the enemy within,
ready to pierce his life
in a single dream

and so he enters —unafraid,
the endless doors of undoing,
for all that empties into the blade
is a lightness of his own becoming.

Deep the wounds may be
yet he never bleeds;
His blade is an undying breath
when Death follows beyond him.