"Come here, little protector.
I need you right now."
But I know I'm too far
past saving.

I breath in nature, try to let the cicadas sing me to sleep

Don't
think
about
him

ANYTHING but him.

it hurts... it feels hollow inside my chest.
I don't feel alive.
I hug my arms around myself
"Hush little baby, don't say a word..."

No matter how hard I try,
his name, his picture
keeps popping up in
the rushing, violent rapids
that are my mind.

I madly shake my head.
I can't breath;
There isn't enough
air.

Don't do it... ANYTHING but it.

But the call of the blade
sings so sweetly to me.
Angelic, hypnotic.
So internal,
I could swear it was an instinct,
right from birth.

"Please... no. I can't."
"What harm will a little cut,
a little blood do?"
"It won't fix anything."
"It'll fix everything,
and you know it.
So shut up, pick up the blade,
and slice."

I give up.
I obey.
I am a painter.
I carve beautiful stories
of pain
of guilt
of blame
of loss
on the blank canvas of my arms.

I let the razor
slip
swim
dance
across my skin.

Dig a little deeper.
For more gore, more meaning
to what it is about this
I need so bad.

I want somebody
who, if they see me hurt and defeated,
sitting on the floor, crimson-stained
Won't swell with anger and yell "Selfish!"
I want somebody who will just sit with me
listen to me
and let me sob.