My wrist is laid
down
alone
upon a table
large well formed feet
visible beneath the glass sheet
that's chilling to the skin
blood recedes from distant hand
until it gathers in a puddle
between the ulna and radius
a bruise of vague percussions
spreading up my little metacarpal
as it smashes vainly upon resistant stable
trying to steady the dancing toes beneath
a barrier so clear
the dust from last week's walk from work
are seen around a sole
that won't decide
where it wants to go
or if going can be defined
while blurred blue engulfs the cloudy witness
to my pointless movements
ontop
beneath
behind
the glass table

this year,
I'll wear purple on christmas
maybe add a little blue here & there
a splash of red near my sleeves
ah, yes, that'll do well

He checked my wrists and thighs
He checked my stomach and my sides
He checked and said "Let me see if you've been cutting again"

He gave no warning.
No sign that he was going to do this in the last hour that I faced him.
He looked me up and down, eyes more serious than I've ever seen
I couldn't help but feel embarrassed that I let him down once before
I was embarrassed I relapsed and he was there to see me unravel.

"I've been good"
"I've been good"
"I've been good"
I felt like a child, repeating the sentence over and over
Our friends continuously asking what I meant and he simply says
"It's nothing."
But in his eyes I could see
To him it meant everything

So he checked
He checked my wrists and thighs
He checked my stomach and my sides
He hugged me tight and whispered softly
*"Please stay good, I love you to much to lose you like that."

Yiska slits
her thin wrist
-broken glass

in a bin
in the ward
what a find-

the blood comes
plentiful
beautiful

she reckons
sitting back
in the bath

of water
motherly
and warming

reddening
but a nurse
on duty

looking to
tell Yiska
the doctor

wanted her
finds her there
in the bath

drifting off
and blood soaked
EMERGECY

SUICIDE
the nurse yells
up the ward

-locked up ward
those who are
mentally

unstable
are caged here-
I am in

the main lounge
looking out
the window

snows falling
some robin
perches there

on a branch
Yiska said
earlier

she'd make it
out of here
one way or

the other
there's a rush
of nurses

and a quack
follows up
half way through

-I'm guessing-
his breakfast
there's egg yoke

at the side
of his mouth
poor Yiska

so depressed
no way out
she told me

but I guess
watching the
brave robin

sitting there
that there is
if you look

really hard
to get out
out somewhere.

You are the scars on my wrist
you are the fresh cuts on my hip
you are the noose hidden in my closet
you are the letter telling my parents that it's not their fault
you are the lie behind every "i'm okay" i've ever spoken

the scars on my wrist, they never lasted
it's as if they knew they were vulnerable

yet every little line of hate is visible on my thigh
it's as if they knew they were a well kept secret

Your hands/your fingers/your palms,
Twined -a vine- delicate and proper
-The one point of softness in you,
I swear-
Around a cigarette that whispers its
Spiral tower wisps
Before it sizzles when you bite it
By accident (you say)
Before it whimpers, and gives-
The best way to die, surely,
To die on the pad of the tip of your
Finger protruding out your
Lovely balmy palm-
Look pretty fab I think! I want
To jump into them
So you can hold me so close
And I can crawl over, unsteady
On new, shortened (further!) legs
To the point on your wrist where
Your heart throbs the most.
In other words,
Be mine.

It crawls underneath your skin.
Distracts you from your friends
from your life.
You can’t help but scratch it.
Your friends try to stop you.
They pull your hands away
the skin on your wrist,
arms,
and legs,
are already red from your nails
they don’t want your skin like paper to tear.
They don’t want to see your blood drip out like paint off a brush.
You can’t help it
that itch is so demanding
it demands to be scratched
no matter where it travels to.
Your wrist becomes bright red with marks from your nails.
Your legs have red splotches over them from digging your nails
into your skin harder to itch through your jeans.
Your arms have red splotches traveling up them
and under the sleeve of your shirt.
Your face is sensitive from your nails digging into it so often.
You can’t win!
The itch doesn’t go away no matter how long you scratch.
It drives you insane.
It won’t leave,
I’m going insane.
The itch is so persistent!
I think I might need some calamine lotion…
Maybe some Benadryl...