Pain, what (used to) control me.

As I drag the glinting blade

Across fragile skin, beads

Of blood sliding down the

Pale flesh of my wrists,

Leaving a barely-there

Trail of red liquid. And I

Suck a sharp breath in when

The silver metal dips beneath

The pathetically thin skin

Of my weak human self.

Clad in a long white dress,

I walk down that aisle,

My demons waiting just ahead.

But then I throw my bouquet

Aside, discard their voices,

Hike up my skirt and run,

Because I always run, like

The coward I am. But the

Blades still sit, buried under books

In my drawer.  And it still sinks into

My willing flesh, my shields plummeting

In those precious few seconds.

And then I yank it out, realizing

What I’ve done, and the heavy

Scent of regret settles like a cloak

Around my shoulders as I discreetly

Pull my shirt sleeve down.

But the pain makes me feel

Alive. It sharpens my perspective,

And wakes me up. It punishes

Me for eating, those thighs that

Are always fat in the mirror,

No matter how skeletal I look

In the daylight, and in the night,

When shadows cast themselves

Across my face, seeking warmth

And shelter from the cold, but

Finding none. And my scars

 Criss-cross through the pale skin

Of my legs and my stomach and my

Wrists. And salty tears soothe the cut,

As nausea clouds my view and I bend

Over, letting my body heal.

Now, though, I go for the pen

Instead of the blade. I let the ink

Out, as to the blood. It hurts less,

And my heart is calm and content.

So even though my scars will never

Fade, neither will the ink on my page.

Now, I show that the pen is truly

Mightier than the sword.

The End

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