X

This next poem, called "X" addresses another societal issue that I feel strongly about. Cutting is something that has a social stigma, which I don't think it deserves. For those who are unaware or confused about cutting, it's not something that just "emo" kids do. Some people cut to punish themselves, some to make emotional or mental pain become physical and others because they feel alone or lost. I feel like cutting has an enormous stigma which it doesn't deserve. I am in no way encouraging cutting, it endangers not only the person afflicted but others around them. Please enjoy this poem, which gives a new perspective on this stigma. As always if you know someone who has this problem, comfort them, help them and let them know they're loved. Please feel free to leave comments :)

X

Her name is X

And this is her story.

The blade hangs suspended in the air

Its serrated edge reflecting the harsh light

From the naked fluorescent bulb.

Her arms are pale and bleached

In the blinding white light

But on the belly of her smooth forearm

Dark scars crisscross one another

With the delicacy of spun sugar.

Everyone always went to her for help

Younger, older, boy, girl

Brother, sister, friend, enemy

She helped them all with problems

Never facing her own demons.

She would flee from her problems.

But she couldn’t run anymore

Because the monsters were inside.

Elbow to wrist, marked with lines

Inscribed upon her flesh by the razor blade.

Light green veins travel over the landscape of her arm

Like little brooks and streams

While her pounding pulse

Dictates the current.

He was angry with her again.

Shouting things at her, holding her arms too tightly

But it wasn’t her fault

She couldn’t always spend time with Him.

But He didn’t care.

It was always her fault to him.

He pushes her hard in the chest

She staggers backwards, hitting the windowpane

Glass shatters, exhaling a cloud of gritty rainbow colored dust into the air

The sharp edge of the blade touches her skin

Icy cold stainless steel against warm flesh

She shuts her eyes tightly

Her grip on the razor simultaneously tensing.

But she doesn’t fear the pain

The physical pain is her lesser evil.

She curls up on the floor

Arms hugging her knees to her chest

Futilely trying to stem the flow of agony.

Hands clutch her hair

In a mad delirious frenzy.

Why could she never do anything right?

Why was it always her fault?

Why was she always wrong?

The blade bites through her skin

Blood spurts, spotting the shining metal

The incision swells with blood

Momentarily held in by the flaps of skin

But her liquid life spills out of the slash in her arm

And trickles down her wrist and elbow

Splashing to the floor.

He was shouting again

Something about her cheating

But she didn’t cheat.

The boy she had talked to was her best friend

But now He wouldn’t let her talk to him anymore.

She wanted to get angry

But He crucified her

Waxing eloquent about how she had hurt Him

How she didn’t love Him anymore.

She begged Him

Telling Him it was her fault and she still loved Him.

He was placated

And reminded her never to talk to her best friend again.

Tears burn the back of her eyes

And she tries to fight them down

But they overwhelm her

And rush forward in a tide

As her wounds weep crimson

Real agony seeps from the corners of her closed eyes

A silvery pearlescent tear

Traces down her cheek, falls off her chin

And lands on her bleeding arms

Leaving a salty residue in its wake.

She leans against the wall

Desperately clutching the sides of her head.

She wants to die.

She wants to vanish and be forgotten.

The one who listens to everyone’s problems

Has no one to turn to.

Her name is X

And this was her story.

But not just her story

Everyone

Everywhere

Knows someone

Like X.