Once upon a time,
You tossed my emotions in the shredder.
I paid you back in flesh.

Nervous,  I grasped the knife.
Pressing it against me,
Right before the puncture.
I freeze. My arm feeling the sting.
I gather myself. Deep breath.
Serated blades saw away,
Breaking skin, tearing muscle.
Then the blood drips.

We exchange wounds,
Cut for cut.
It wasn't love, just pain.

My Mother called my Grandmother a  "***** Gypsy" a long time ago
I never knew what it meant until I gave that part of my heritage a go

The Romani left India about 1,500 years ago, traveling, running ever since
The White people of the Medieval Ages hated them, at their very presence they took offense...

In some areas of Europe it was a common practice to mutilate the woman, **** and stolen kisses
And they branded the men with hot pokers... Who can understand this?

They were forbidden to speak in their native tongue
Yet their songs of joy and laughter are still sung

The front seat is full
of coffin nails, Bic lighters,
and mutilation.

©  Matthew Harlovic

It’s the coldness of the window
That brings arctic winds into my eyes
The pane of glass provides a simple
View of the world which I despised

Shut in my world is perfected misery
Sweet release waiting for its prime
A scarlet hue of liquid rubies
Flowing from the thinnest lines

And I keep
Bleeding out
Even now I can
Still feel myself
I’m saving me but

I keep
Bleeding out
Even though I can’t
Feel myself
I’m losing me

Every line bears little resemblance
To the ones that have crossed before
Only fear keeps this knife moving
Only pain makes me want it more

Stains cover every tile here
From a regressed and spiteful nature
Maybe this desire is deep enough to
Make this the last line I'll endure

But I keep
Bleeding out
Even though I can
Still feel myself
I’m saving me but

I keep
Bleeding out
Even though I can’t
Feel myself
I’m losing me

© 2014

A gift from granny,
but running down the corridor at school, you fell
you shattered
harmless pieces of glass

but sharp
oh so sharp

and so six years ago,
with a small cut on the hand

you started a habit
that i'd never break.

There is naught but cold
as the days grow old
and our faces become lined
but our expressions stay bold;

there is nothing but hate
where once love did accumulate
and our hearts, now stone,
are weary as we mutilate;

there is not but death
in the place of mirth,
where life once thrived:
we dare not take a breath.

And now maligned,
alone,
we live contrived.

1 a.m.,
Supposed to be asleep.
1 a.m.,
My body starts to weep..
Memories I keep,
Strewn all over the floor,
Me,
Crawling,
Looking for more.
My knees and palms are sore,
Finally,
I find what's in store.

Shiny,
Bright,
Not new.
Old habit,
I run the sharp edge over my fingertip,
Place it on my hip,
Careful not to hit anything important,
I move it to my wrists.
Dig and dig to find relief,
All the pain that's  underneath
Sighs,
My cries muffled.

1 a.m. ,
Supposed to be asleep.
1 a.m.,
My blood proceeds to seep.
My soul is his to keep..
Don't weep
1 a.m.,
I'm dead.