Silver Kisses
Am I addicted to it?
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIITo what?
The pain.
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIWell, could you live without it?
I...I don't know.
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIWell, there's your answer.
i.
Once, when my smiles were innocent
IIIIIIIIIIIIand my mind clear,
I held a knife in my hand and
wondered with a curiosity so wrong
for a child –
IIIIIIIIIwhat it would be like to
IIIIIIIIIcut a line across my wrist with it.
ii.
I still remember it was March
when I cried my eyes red in the
shower and finally slit
one small cut into my pale stomach
with the razor I'd once
regarded with indifference.
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII never thought that with just one cut,
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII'd be drawing up a life sentence.
iii.
I turned cowardly after that,
using anything but a razor –
a wickedly sharp pin, a toothpick,
silver sewing needles.
Once I tried scissors but
it didn't work out so well.
IIIIIIIIIISometimes I wonder if the blunt
IIIIIIIIIIobjects were worse;
IIIIIIIIIII had to cut more to draw the
IIIIIIIIIIsweet release I wanted.
iv.
The longest I ever lasted when
I tried to stop was a few months.
One time, I turned crazy
and cut my thigh up until
my vision ran red.
I guess it was lucky my school
skirt was long then.
I stopped quitting after that.
v.
To have a change from
the silver blade,
I filled a plastic jug with boiling water
and plunged my hand into it.
I can't explain how much that hurt.
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIGod, it felt good.
And when I pulled my hand out,
it looked purple and red,
bruised and pitiful.
vi.
And one time, I drew
my razor over my wrist, again
IIIIIIand again
until all the blood made it hard to
keep going. So it scabbed and
then the cycle of cutting started again
- it's easier to cut through with a scab
there first. The blood dried black.
I still have a white scar there now.
vii.
Last year, I used that wicked pin
for two months – over the same
places, like a repetitive cycle that
could not stop.
It left seventeen brown scars.
You can still see them if you
look close enough.
viii.
I recently quit for a few months
but I can't stay away from
the pain forever.
I only need small cuts now
to give me the bliss I crave.
The scars are enough for the
cry of help I scream.
But they never look close enough, do they?
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIITo what?
The pain.
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIWell, could you live without it?
I...I don't know.
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIWell, there's your answer.
i.
Once, when my smiles were innocent
IIIIIIIIIIIIand my mind clear,
I held a knife in my hand and
wondered with a curiosity so wrong
for a child –
IIIIIIIIIwhat it would be like to
IIIIIIIIIcut a line across my wrist with it.
ii.
I still remember it was March
when I cried my eyes red in the
shower and finally slit
one small cut into my pale stomach
with the razor I'd once
regarded with indifference.
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII never thought that with just one cut,
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII'd be drawing up a life sentence.
iii.
I turned cowardly after that,
using anything but a razor –
a wickedly sharp pin, a toothpick,
silver sewing needles.
Once I tried scissors but
it didn't work out so well.
IIIIIIIIIISometimes I wonder if the blunt
IIIIIIIIIIobjects were worse;
IIIIIIIIIII had to cut more to draw the
IIIIIIIIIIsweet release I wanted.
iv.
The longest I ever lasted when
I tried to stop was a few months.
One time, I turned crazy
and cut my thigh up until
my vision ran red.
I guess it was lucky my school
skirt was long then.
I stopped quitting after that.
v.
To have a change from
the silver blade,
I filled a plastic jug with boiling water
and plunged my hand into it.
I can't explain how much that hurt.
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIGod, it felt good.
And when I pulled my hand out,
it looked purple and red,
bruised and pitiful.
vi.
And one time, I drew
my razor over my wrist, again
IIIIIIand again
until all the blood made it hard to
keep going. So it scabbed and
then the cycle of cutting started again
- it's easier to cut through with a scab
there first. The blood dried black.
I still have a white scar there now.
vii.
Last year, I used that wicked pin
for two months – over the same
places, like a repetitive cycle that
could not stop.
It left seventeen brown scars.
You can still see them if you
look close enough.
viii.
I recently quit for a few months
but I can't stay away from
the pain forever.
I only need small cuts now
to give me the bliss I crave.
The scars are enough for the
cry of help I scream.
But they never look close enough, do they?