lines
I trace lines on my body
like the lines of a puzzle,
moving pieces of myself around;
accommodating other's needs before my own.
Then I reach the end,
only to realise I followed the wrong path –
that like ink on paper,
the scars of the blade I used to trace
are permanent.
There is no going back.
Now I'm stuck,
left to contemplate my sins,
left to watch myself bleed,
bleed the black blood of nothingness.
They're talking to me,
lethal tongues cursing,
holding me down –
lungs heavy with the weight
of invasive thoughts too effacing to utter.
Unconscious and floating
in a river of cruelty
of my own making,
numb to everything but the ripples
that hug my skin –
the most comfort I'll allow myself.
It's better to not feel.
Only the lines that I trace on my body
that suddenly bring relief
not grief.
Only the depth of the shards stuck in my skin;
only the nothingness that comes with death.
I trace lines on my body
like the lines of a puzzle,
moving pieces of myself around
always, always
accommodating others.
// R.M.