Self-Destruction

 

So climb walls,
Thin my blood now
And I crawl, back to bed now

What the hell, gotta rest
Aching pain in my chest
Lucky me, now I'm set
Little bug for a pet
New Orleans, gotta get
Pin cushion medicine
Used to be curious
Now the shit's sustenance

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So come bite the apple
I'm run down
Like Sodom to Gomorrah, all dead now
So please stop to laugh, and pity me
My soul means well, but I'm sorry
My skin it is weathered and I'm nervous, yes I am
My future was in my hands till I washed it all away
Washed it all away

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VI

Let me start again, here,
where a woman ends.
The wrists were involved.
Also the leg-tops, the delicate skin
of the inner arms,
anywhere she could drag a sharpness

that factors in and out
what she could not change in her life
which was pain.

The steel ratio of pain
to power
being control.

VII

 

Now ask yourself, as I did,
why hurt yourself more?

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Postscript.
Sometimes she would cut herself, then go next door
to the neighbor's house --
a drywall finisher out of work
because this was the recession --
and present her arms to him
shyly, like a girl
in her first prom gown of ruched sateen,
awkward in bows
but with terribly alert eyes.

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Ask the girl with the dirt in her mouth.
Ask the girl who is all poem
now, all shapes between the shapes
she carved into her flesh 
like a tattoo artist falling in love.

with what remains un-inked, the border crossings
and blue edges
and the razor bleeding
in her hand.

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Almost involuntarily (it feels involuntary, to her) she steps or stumbles forward, and the stone pulls her in. For a moment, still, it seems like nothing; it seems like another failure; just chill water she can easily swim back out of; but then the current wraps iteself around her and takes her with such sudden, muscular force it feels as if a strong man has risen from the bottom, grabbed her legs and held them to his chest. It feels personal.

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Discomfort is worse than a wound. At least you know where you are with blood. At least other people can see it.

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My thoughts are messy, my emotions are messy, my body goes in and out at will. The raised white scars on my arms and legs are the only aspect of my being that comes close to minimalism. They came from chaos, but it is hard to carve frustration and unease into the flesh. Only straight lines.

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It's okay
Had a bad day
Hands are bruised from breaking rocks all day
Drained and blue
I bleed for you
You think it's funny, well you're drowning in it too

Everyday it's something hits me all so cold
Find me sitting by myself, no excuses, then I know

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Did you hear the distant lie
Calling me back to my sin
Like the one you knew before
Calling me back once again

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