i realize now how much i missed
fingerpainting my blood into
poetry
i am what i am,
insane.
(i do not pretend otherwise)
a warning, of sorts
prophecy, if you will.
i
can’t stand
to see your face
when you fail to tie me
together, helpless against the
bite
of the razors, the
tremor of my hands, the tears or
the haze when
i lose myself.
i do
not get close.
i say it
like a mantra
(someone else will come first)
should
leaving be necessary, my
litany
is well-rehearsed.
my oft-repeated organized flight
into my small,
dark mind where my blood
cements everything,
black is always my color.
i begin to sink
into my wonderland.
take my drugs as i like it,
feel the tingling limbs jerk
in
feeble response.
i am not nearly numb enough, no.
i do not know if i ever will be.
i pull
down
my sleeves
over my slashed arms.
yes,
i do cut and mutilate myself and
no,
it is none of your business.
Stop
Fucking
Staring.
*part of my senior B.A. thesis. yes, i was highly controversial.
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