internal discourse: a cutter's monologue

the arm looks like it's reaching

a panhandler girl on the side of the road

(spare some change, sir? ma'am? please?)

like grasping at some spiritual enlightenment

(god, give me strength? wisdom? patience?)

like it's trying to escape from the inevitable

(on the deepest level, still afraid of pain.)

 

with the side of my cheek i run

the skin against the skin, knotted with ridges

(and heat i'm daring myself to bear elsewhere

saying i can take it, and i deserve it, too.)

sucking blood from wounds that slow

and aching for the razor's dischord, dissonance

tearing the soft skin at the wrist in two.

 

i'm not wondering how i'll hide the markings

though i probably should be, since

it's too warm now for jackets; bracelets?

spinning excuses for the masses that won't say a word

(how i tripped and sprawled in gravel

attacked by that cat for the third time this week.

you wouldn't believe me if i told you.)

 

longing for the bite of blade, blood brought to surface

as my tongue flicks along the crooked lines

drunken, scraggly, a product of an inflamed brain

(or is it your brain that's inflamed?)

draw patterns in rust with a cold key, scrape of teeth

lean back and revel in this manufactured bliss

(just one more and then i'll stop.)