I take to rubbing my thigh, where the cuts and bruises will fail to deliver anything other than a scar of sad remembrance
I’ve been cutting, something I never believed that I might ever do
Why? Just because, to try something a little different perhaps
Something to dull the pain reaping havoc on my mind, a pain I’ve become so very used to it’s quite normal for me by now
Ludicrously so in fact
And know what, I slept rather well after doing it, after smashing a family heirloom painting and sitting here and placing shards of thick calling glass against my thigh – it was rather light first off, these radiant grazes, ’til things got a little more severe
And, soon, I was beside myself crying and cutting, marking a body which just could not push itself to care anymore
I look at it now and I am above all else ashamed, petrified for what I have actually managed to do to my fine self
I have to ask, when in the name of Christ did it all go so horrendously askew
Probably when my mind took that detrimental leap to never return – I miss everything and now I carry the putrid adverts as to exactly who I have become upon my upper left thigh
I will smoke another box of hapless cigarettes and continue to cherish and fail to touch a life that could’ve, should’ve been oh so very wonderful
Somewhere inside of the last week I think I finally started writing only for me – that can absolutely happen when no-one’s been listening

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