Wrist Cutters

A Poem by Andrea

self mutilation

It's an art form, almost like a tattoo.
It tells a story, and takes a life.
Through every glide of the razorblade
a little truth is poured.
Some only do it to relieve the stress;
others to feel closer to death.
Drip.
Drip.
Drop.
The blood starts to pour,
like the tears rain from their eyes.
Your joint rolls in circles
and the red dances across your wrist.
You paint a picture,
one abstract
and painful.

But there is something so sensual,
so healing,
when you pick up that piece of glass.
It's like ecstasy found its way
to express tranquility upon your flesh.