Sunday, 13 February 2011


Trigger Warning: Self-Injury

Mad, she slammed the door
stomped to the bed and
threw her weight against mute, unyeilding cloth and cotton

Screaming seemed a good idea
smashing things to the floor seemed better
old habits die hard
but if you get older leaving the habits behind,
they come back to you reluctantly
almost never, like abandoned children
who refuse to return to the nest that never was

Her nails were too big
she fished for the nailcutter in the clutter that was her room
found it and forced it on her fingers

If her hands were shaking
if she was careless
if she sneezed suddenly or the room shook by way of providence
but you can't play out the future in your head
and expect manifestations before your eyes
and so, when the nailcutter closed with a snap
the only things that cut were nails

Her shirt was loose, button missing at the top
A safety pin held the cloth together against her chest
she plucked it out

Like swift streams flowing with practiced grace
like little pebbles rolling down a slope
like the invisible lines made by ballet dancers
to recreate them on the plains of her arms
armed with just a tiny, sharp point
a temporary tattoo of red
a permanant one of brown

Afterwards, she replaces the pin,
switches off the light and gets into bed
Her arm is outstretched for all the world to see - unmarred, unmarked