TRIGGER WARNING: SELF HARM
One, two, three, … seventeen.
I count the healing wounds on my skin.
I trace each one with my fingers,
feeling the ridges and creases
of pink discolored scars.
I rub each one tenderly,
remembering and missing
the pain of each one opening,
the nostalgia of each cut made.
Again, I rub my healing wrist,
promising myself and skin
to resist the urges and not give in.
The nagging threats and insults
fill my mind, pleading for relief
for pain to clear the thoughts,
for blood to stain my skin,
rolling down and pooling
on the floor where I often lie,
pleading to feel the coolness
of the dormitory floor,
feeling the streams from each slice,
running across my arm,
pooling under my wrist
soaking it in a ruby mess.
My mind wishes to clear
with this well-known skill
to calm, clear, and compose,
to distract from the storm,
to cope with my inner darkness,
to deal with my deadly thoughts,
to lie on the floor half conscious,
half aware of the mistake
the hurt, the cruelty I had done.