Sting

Sting


I'm cut.
over and over again
red slashes across my arm
with small beads
of little blood
copper tasting
I'm cut.

Masochistic dreams
nightmares
of being brain raped
poked and prodded
dead and rotted

Sweet daydreamer
with your eyes glazed over
by crystal powders
left around your nostrils
give me what you got
I want to escape
but I can't
so I cut

You ever watch yourself bleed?
Little tiny droplets
almost like dew
except death -life- seeping out
heated fevers
wracking me at night
my sheets twisted
sweat layered
quiet moans of uncomfortable positions

But I cut
no one else holds the blade
just me

My own little sanctuary
my escape
it's mine
so I cut
because I like to feel the sting
as it lingers
and hurts
and bleeds
and I cry
because no one holds my hand
no one tells me to stop
they just all turn their heads
so I cut
and sting
without emotional jargon.
I like the sting
it's my addiction
my affliction
my masochistic escape.




Author's Notes: This poem was written a few years ago when I was deep into my Depression. I've since gotten better.