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by Makua Author IconMail Icon
Rated: ASR · Poetry · Personal · #837797
A poem about my struggle with self injury (cutting)
I gaze into nothingness,
and I am scattered upon the floor
Eyes red and swollen,
I pick up the scissors
Small, sharp
Pointed, perfect
I grasp them in hand,
and hold my savior
my back to the door,
and a tear trickles down a lifeless cheek
a trembling hand brushes it away,
and I stretch out my left arm
I open the scissors,
and press the tip to a scarred forearm
I whimper at first, but swallow the cry,
and continue the pressure
slide the blade down,
and a red gash appears
sighs of relief come with the sight of a deep red line secreting from the wound,
and its like a high
a rush of endorphins numb all pain,
and my body cries tears of blood
and I am free.

© Copyright 2004 Makua (morrocanbreeze at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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