Pitiful.
I sit with the blade in my hand
And all I’ve managed is a slice to the skin.
There’s no blood no tearing of the flesh.
I’ve returned to cutting
But I’m not taking this seriously.
Where once I would gouge a hole,
Where once I would part my flesh to see the blood run,
I am now a novice.
Just pathetic.

What if I were to kiss you?
What if I were to lean across and place my lips upon yours?
Would you part you lips and stroke your tongue against mine?
Would you run your fingers through my hair and press me closer to you?

What if I were to kiss you?
What if I were to place my hand upon your thigh and run them a little higher?
Would you press your body to mine so that I could feel you against me?
Would you place your hands upon my hips to move me closer?

What if I were to kiss you?
Would you kiss me back?

I would strip each item away for your gaze.
I would stand to be adored,
I would obey to be controlled,
And I would bend to be touched.
The press of your hands upon my skin.
Marked and claimed and owned.

There: skin dull and purple.
Here: I feel the ache, coloured blue.
Each one is wanted,
each one is displayed.
They have been earned.
I am able to take the pain,
I am able to endure the anger,
I have taken what was given.
I remain and the fury has been silenced.

Hey
I’m feeling pretty low,
Just feel adrift and stuck and don’t know which choice to make.
So I make no choice essentially,
the coward’s choice.
Looking at the thin strip of red-
barely visible, already fading-
I feel proud?? As though I have been resisting for so long, such an age and I finally managed it. I achieved a mark.
Albeit only a sliver, a skin scratch, one without blood
It gives me hope that there can be more
(A return to the past)
And maybe something deeper, one which will drip.

As the sun tore through the clouds
It bled orange into the morning sky
While I stood idly by
Bearing witness to the silent death of the night.