My Wrist’s Wishes


 I look down at my wrist.
She stares up at me with a sense of pleading,
not to harm her anymore, not to cut her open,
begging for just one day without fresh pain,
time to pull herself together,
bind her skin and heal,
asking not to be stretched apart,
trying to keep herself intact,
working to mend herself.

Her wrist, she wishes for bandage,
ointment and care.
She dreams of cool water
to bathe and wash under,
the coolness soothing her pain,
cold compresses, and freedom to breathe.

She wishes to no longer hide,
but she knows she must for she fears attention.
She feels no approval from others,
constantly rejected and pitied by many.
Some days she makes small appearances,
but often only by accident.

She is kept hidden from the world,
where she is safe from rejection,
safe from disapproval and worry.


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