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CUTTING

The material on my jumper, catches, on my freshly cut arms,

The blood still congealed, like lines of red clotted drops from a

Candle.

The wax like cuts, burn, like fire … Beautiful red lines of shame.

My Eyelids burn with long lost tears,

Tears, that now are dead and gone.

My half existence is turning me into someone that I hate…

I used to be a person… I had confidence and laughter in my soul…

 

Yet now I am typing this through hands that are shaking,

They twitch, as beech tree leaves, in autumn breeze.

My Soul is full of self-loathing and hate.

I am aching inside my heart, for a way out of this pain.

The tears of many built up years of not existing,

Are hovering behind my eyes…waiting to expunge forward…

Tentatively they hold back, like tiny friends made of clear salt water.

 

Self-destruct is a familiar colour to my eyes

The normality of my fear of punishment

Now punishment is dealt by my own

Hand,

And a broken glass, that cuts with ease,

Releasing frustration and despair

I watch myself, nightmare like, as I dispel my blood

Some believe the soul is in the blood

If this is true my soul has dripped away

For in that moment I am no more