I have bad thoughts
Of beautiful things
The color red
Oozing from my pale skin
The simplicity of a clean line
Only to be ruined by smeared blood
Why do these thoughts haunt me?
Am I obsessed with my own pain?
Or simply so ****** up
That I find beauty
In the face of my demons

Two lines, visible on your right arm;
I kiss them every time I see you.

Not much else can be said about
two little lines, but I need to say more.

Two tiny lines that'll scar and fade away
leaving only a memory of why you

ripped open your arm because you felt
completely and utterly alone

because your own brother couldn't
do anything.

or say anything.
or stop you.

Even when he saw you create
those two bleeding lines.

I don't know how I met you. Inspired.
It's like you appeared out of the thin air.
Newly created...

I held my own, just barley,
As you looked at me, across your dinner table at mid day or earlier.
Like it was early in the morning even though it wasn't.
Fresh and geeky, tidy and neat, And on a mission!
You smiled, laughed and winced in my general direction.
I answered your questions, one worded like.
You answered mine before I even asked, I was mystified.
You're like a feather, from a native chiefs head dress,
Dipped in ink,
Then blown onto a piece of paper made of pure flexible gold,
Written into existence by divine inscription.
Dawson Creek...

I made a sculpture. Five so far,
I cut my thumb, multiple times on this one, multiple times.
Sorry. To number five and to myself,
Bad skills, bad counter-pressure,
Blood, scars, band-aids.
Blood on five, scars on me,
Pouce Coupe...

Between for me equals the space between,
Between Dawson Creek and Grand Prairie,
Like Pouce Coupe, is "cut thumb", in french.
A mother tongue language of somewhere in me, undiscovered.
English is my Papa tongue, the language of, "let's get things done!"
Both pretty good. One definitely more productive! Go!
Pouce Coupe, the undiscovered middle ground.
A french name for an English town.
Pouce Coupe...

Like this sculpture,
Art from the space between, Like the memory of you,
My "lost" friends,
Memories like driving there and home again.
Through memory lane.
It's like Pouce Coupe, the memory of you.
Like the scar, the cut thumb, the memories good and all my bad.
And somewhere in between I'll meet you all again,
Most likely in "Pouce Coupe".
The unpredictable space between,
Pouce Coupe...

Knives.
Sleek, silver, shimmering.
It speaks to me,
"Come this way."

Mutilation
Is as bad as you make it.
To us it is just a way
To relieve some pain.

Blades.
They are so great,
emotional shade,
a short escape.

Stitches.
Two now,
by myself.
Still no relief.

I drew on myself today
and I drew my heart on my hand
so when I give you one
you get both

I drew on myself yesterday
and I drew a rose on my arm
so when I see it
I think of you

I drew on myself two days ago
and I drew 18 little lines
which drew blood
which drew attention

I love drawing
I love writing
I love you
so that's why I'm drawing love

if i told you i was sorry tor the marks you were about to see
would you ask what marks
or would you say i know what marks you are talking about
would you stick with me when i told you it happend for over a year
or would you turn your back on me and tell me i was hopeless
and garbage
but worst of all
if i showed you the marks
would you tell anyone else
or would you keep it to yourself
if i told you that i am sorry for cutting myself
would you lift up your sleeve and say
its ok i cut too
we will get through this together

"Go have a breakdown since that's all you're good at"

He doesn't realise the weight his words have on me

Words that cascade with force into my entire world

Tunnel vision showing only him

As a target

Revenge is bittersweet
Much like the black coffee, dark chocolate, and gin that I love

In hindsight revenge never does cut it

Because I never use a knife

Instead my revenge is in the form of removal

It makes no difference

.

Words

That's all they are

Yet they're as sharp as a double edged sword

One side is jagged, the other smooth

Both cut

Deep

Wounds left etched through my body

Scars running like war paths over my entirety

Does he gain pleasure by putting me down?

Does making me feel worthless make him feel strong?

Or am I simply a woman who hasn't evolved past the hindrance of emotion

The anguish that festers in our minds at night
Takes a hold when our torment takes flight

Why can’t we just let it go
Slice the skin, let the pain flow

All thoughts and reason could be forgotten
As the sickness inside starts to blossom

Mingled and entwined with your soul
It’s how the sick darkness takes control

On a dark tide of false thoughts and dreams
Reality fights while your inner demon screams

Tearing apart the delightful little lie
Piece by piece as you stumble and cry

All your left with is stark reality
A sense of loss in truths brutality

Open your eyes and remove the blinkers
See people for what they truly are
Or the pain and hurt will forever linger.