Catharsis

My past, burning the bridges of my present.

I wish I had a map of scars, etched into my skin.

Constellations, veins of pain, a compass of my sin.

I want claw marks on my face, carved by my own hands

and scratches down my back where wings should have been.

I want bruises on my arms, handprints of the inhuman

and rings around my waist, from the arms of a demon.

I want poetry composed by a razors blade

bleeding words promised not to fade.

I want stars on my hands where I was nailed to my cross

and I'll cut off my feet so I cannot walk.

I want my chest to be carved and cracked

 a vacancy of the heart I tainted black.

I want tears of blood marring my face

and weeping burns searing every lustful place.

I want sutures silencing my wicked lips

and the flesh to be torn from my tender breasts.

I want my screams to go unheard

and I want you to watch, without word.

So noose my neck and hang me high

 I'll open my arms and be your guide.

Hell is reflected upon my skin

 Thou shalt not forget where thou hast been.

Author's Note

I don't mind if you dislike it, just be constructive in your criticism.

Reviews

[Trevor Bushey]

It sounds like you want to embellish grievous elements of your past; the impressions of self-induced harm implicit in the poem warrants a genuine concern. You contribute to your own miserable condition before having resolved the latter. It's as though you, instead of purging the toxic contents of your viscera, you heave and heave with little release.

[AudreySee]

Quite the contrary. These are the things I've never told anyone before. I can't seem to find the strength to say them, so I wish they were written upon me so that a few people may understand. This was a release, I finally told more people than I had ever planned on, the things I have known. Don't take it as literal self harm. Wounds are not always physical, but sometimes I wish they were. Then the stories would be much easier to tell.