It is screaming out my name,
with every little hurdle.
Every bump in the long road,
my eyes catch the glint of steel.
I want to see my blood ooze.
I want to feel my flesh cut.
To bathe in glorious pain,
and scar up my whole body.
It comes with raging fury,
as it devours other thoughts,
and then tries to tear me down,
relentless and dangerous.
Anger and anxiety,
hand in hand they seem to be,
and I do not like either.
My bad luck is they like me.
I’d start out slow, then speed up,
pick up where I last left off,
on my ankles and my legs,
then I would try somewhere new.
But I cannot, and instead,
I writhe inside endlessly,
trying by some other means,
to get this thing out of me.
Poetry
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This has some very powerful imagery in it. The entire second stanza made me physically wince when I first read it. The language is nice and clear and the stanzas give the reader enough of a break to breathe every once in a while. I go back and forth on whether this is about a knife or a razor blade The line “on my legs and ankles” made me think of a woman shaving her legs, and blood and (hair) bumps are two things I also associate with shaving. I don’t think you should go out of your way to make it clear which it is — the beauty in the poem is in your hesitation to name it outright — but I just wanted to give you a heads-up that people might read it this way. Of course, both knives and razor blades are used for self-harm so it’s not a huge deal anyway. Good job!
Thank you for your wonderful feedback as always! It is appreciated! 🙂