Monday, April 30, 2012

The Instrument of Mutilation

The instrument of
mutilation has
done it again.
Fast searing hot
pain as the blade
draws across my
pale pale skin.
No lover.
No family member.
No friend.
Just the purest
form of anger
shot forth across
my arm and wrist
and slash my skin.
Blood rises to
the occasion.
At last no more
pain and anger.
Have to clean up
my mess.
But I feel pure again.
What does that mean?

Copyright © Karen Elizabeth Waters 2011

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