I read all the poems written by "cutters",
And it takes me back 8 or 10 years,
To a broken winged angel on a cold,
black and white tiled bathroom floor........
A cutter before the epidemic,
Before the phenomenon rocked our youth,
Before it was "cool",
Before it held no shame,
Before we stopped hiding the pain.
This is not an emotional plea,
But I listened to your cries
So, now, hear me.
I sat on that cold, hard bathroom floor,
And waited for the pain inside to die.
Of course it didn't,
You all know the story.
Trade the pain in my heart for the pain outside.
I didn't reach for blades of steel,
Sharp edged pieces with a point.
There was no point.
Instead I used a wire hanger,
Bent until it broke.
Jagged edge.
Forearms, thighs, stomach, wrists,
All the same places you choose.
Easy to hide, when you wear the "right clothes",
That's the difference between me and you.
I hid my cuts and prayed,
That nobody would ever see,
The disgusting length I stooped too,
Just trying to "stop the pain".
The scar that left the deepest mark,
The most "symbolic" cut of all
Is the one that mocks my left breast,
Right above my beating heart.
And after all these years I remember,
I gouged a line upon my chest,
Because he hurt me so deeply.
Damn what was his name?
As I sit here now, I look at my arms,
I see the fading remnants of my "battle scars".
I remember a girl so full of dispair,
Digging holes in her body
For what?
I dont remember now.
A cutter stopped cutting.
There was no fighting the urge.
There was no overcoming temptation.
There were no doctor's diagnoses.
There was no lingering longing.
Just a girl who realized how silly she looked,
Wearing long sleeves in August,
To hide it.
And I survived,
Through the loss of friends,
The loss of lovers,
The loss of innocence,
The loss of MY CHILD.
Without a single thought,
of tearing my flesh just to watch myself bleed.
This is not an emotional plea,
But if you choose to keep "cutting",
Don't bleed on me. |
Submission Name: UN-CUT
