I want a serrated blade.
I will start slowly at first.
Sawing gently.
Legs, feet, ankles.
This is where I mark myself.
Where I mutilate my flesh.
I saw harder.
The cut gets deeper.
Until the flesh tears.
Leaving a scar which will not heal.
The blood pours across the floor.
The rush to my brain.
It blocks the emotions.
The awful emotions.
I’d rather have the pain.
I clean the mess,
cover the wounds,
and go about my day.
I don’t know why I do this,
but I no longer care.
I’ve tried to do right.
To be a good person.
But it does not matter.
I am a destined failure.
A waste of potential.
A cosmic joke.
So be it. I surrender.
Let the world hit me again.
And again. And again.
My freedom lies in blood.
Poetry
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