/666 stitches.

This is probably the most abstract yet unarguably accurate piece I've ever written about my depression, self-injury, and the way I regard myself.

one little scratch is all i want.
and then another
and another.
just one more,
until my skin is seething with cuts and scars.

i look at this girl in the mirror.
i know she's me, but i don't recognize her,
and the cicatrices and wounds she wears like armour are also unfamiliar to me.

i slowly destroy myself.
one by one.
bit by bit.
a droplet of blood
to another.
scar by scar,
[i unravel myself until i disappear.]

this girl,
she's pathetic.
she's disgusting.
she's addicted.
she's my reflection, she's me.
you've no idea
how many times a day
that i look at her.
and wish she would just die.
leave me be
to wipe the slate clean.

i want to erase her,
like words from a page.
i want to cut her up,
and tape her into something beautiful.
the only thing that holds her together,
is stitches.
the love she receives from other people.
friends and family.

her problem,
you see,
is that she cares too much.

sometimes
i think about pulling those stitches out.
i think about the relief she would feel then.
the glorious sensation of her wings unfurling
as her skin turns to snow
and her eyes become gold.
the freedom she would finally have
to carve her own path.

my freedom.
my path.
my wings.
only problem is--
there's 666 stitches,
and i can't reach them all.
i need help.
someone to do it for me.
to take out my barbed wire stitches.
someone who won't leave.
who won't hurt me.
who understands.
stitches of barbed wire.
etched in spirals
tight loops
and knotted twists.
forcing my wings
to wrap around my bones
in a feathery embrace.

like angel wings hugging me on the inside,
where they twitch and itch.
they've been there all my life
for as long as i can remember.
but everyday, their struggles
and fight for freedom
get a little more frantic.
a little more desperate,
a little more . . sad.
i swear sometimes they even cry.
they're like me:
all they want
is a place
where they can be free.
where they don't have to hide themselves . .

Author's Note

Ignore the grammar issues. Whenever I write poetry, I never capitalize anything. Dunno why, it just seems easier that way.

Constructive critism, positive comments, and any support whatsoever are, as always, welcome.

Reviews

[Emma Pond]

This was powerful. So many unrecognized people/teens feel this way, and they go unnoticed. I wish that they didn't feel as so and knew that people loved them and they are precious to someone if not everyone.