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SELF MUTILATION
A darkened room with walls painted black
a low bed and a sink with a mirror at the back
so I sit after firmly bolting the door
and lay out gently my things on the floor
a pair of scissors and a razor blade
and a bottle of vodka are the tools of my trade
I slowly stand up whilst undoing my dress
let it fall to the floor, exposing bare flesh
then, with the blade, score a line on my arm
the one thing that helps me is doing me harm
I don't press too hard, just enough to draw blood
and I'm not suicidal, just misunderstood
The pain from inside me is getting too much
so I turn to destruction to keep me in touch
self mutilation helps give me control
which is sadly lacking in life as a whole
I think I have changed from who I used to be
the fear and the pain swallowed up the old me
I can't rationalise that which I do
I know that it’s stupid, but I think it is true
that this is the only way I can survive
Prozac alone cannot keep me alive
I fear I've appalled you, well don't be alarmed
I'll try to keep covered the scars on my arms
I have had such an overwhelming response to this poem I felt I had to
add something for all those people who have emailed. There are a lot of you out there
who hurt so badly you have to cut yourselves. This makes me very sad, but I know there is nothing I can do
- if it is the one thing which makes you able to cope with life, then in a warped way I wouldnt want
to stop you. The scars on my arms have faded now, and most of the people I know never even noticed them.
That is the way I want it to stay.
I want to thank you for all you support, and if anyone has any more comments, please let me know. It makes
it all seem worthwhile if I know my poetry means something to someone else.
thank you
Copyright 1997 by _sPiDerBaBy_
Any comments? - mail me
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