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.