twirly with hearts for flourish
in every attempt at being artistic
but i didn't know who i was writing it there for.
i marked my wrist with a pretty word
just so i could say i did it, that i'm honoring the day.
but the disconnect i was left with
was written all over me,
scribed into telltale limbs that needed validation.
some girl somewhere had taken blade to flesh
right below her capable hands
because they'd called her ugly,
because she'd believed them;
pain in person to equal pain in soul
and she could hide in her sleeves
so no one would know
of her mutilation --
soon to become afternoon ritual.
when the boy she liked
agreed with her toughest critics
she slit those shiny wrists in the bathtub
and she slit them good
so she'd never have to slit them again.
she'd never have to endure such bullshit again.
they found her lying deep in her sickness and her sins,
which they hadn't seen until she'd sworn them all off for life
in the name of death
and all the legacies she might have left
were erased from the history of the earth
as if she'd never been a part of it.
it seemed reason enough to slit my wrists with ink
for only a day, for only a day
which to her had been more of an eternity
of insults damaging her worth.
i dug the pen in as far as it would go
into malleable skin,
pouring bloody ink into bloody veins,
carving the word in so it wouldn't leave,
a word she hadn't known,
a word that might have spared her life.
i scraped the word 'love' across my arm
pulling pain from her undead flesh,
remembering a stranger
who would have written 'love' on her arm
if the world had shown her any.
[this was written following the "To Write Love On Her Arms" event one year, a day where people are encouraged to write "love" on their arms to express their support of suicide prevention. i was feeling disconnected to it all even though i wanted to participate, so i wrote about it until i found some sort of meaning. i quite dislike the final line myself, too cliché for my tastes, but i didn't know where else to take it. xo]