The scars

They scatter your skin

A scathing reminder

Of the internal warzone. 

 

The silver slither of  the 

sharpness weighing a ton between your 

finger tips

Is only a shadow of the scorn you feel. 

 

I get it. 

 

The self inflicted 

bears resemblence 

to some masochistic, 

sanctuary. 

 

Deciding

The angle at which you mutalate

The level and acuity of the pain 

Is the only way that you create 

The illusion of control. 

 

But baby, 

 

After the blood runs 

Tangerine 

The crimson muted by the tears

 

After the scars have multiplied, 

and persisted through the years 

 

After the blade 

Is replaced

In your box of sharps

 

You are left alone with your tattered heart. 

 

So maybe, just maybe, 

hear me out , if you will

 

Focus on all of the pain you can heal 

Rather than opening new wounds, 

new voids to fill.