Why is it that getting dressed
Causes me so much distress?
And dresses with pockets are rarer
Than any form of self-instigated self-care?
Dried blood on my wrists and on my thighs
Like a burgundy tattoo that gives me a high.
Not to look at, but to feel the pain;
This refuge from hurt, is what keeps me sane.
There’s real tattoos too – across my back
And my chest and visceral in black,
Are the quotes that keep me alive.
Not just alive, but giving me something to strive
For, aim for, save for. Adding art to my body
Instead of sketching on paper, and photocopies,
And dumping thoughts as words, and an ocean
Of sadness. These waves of anti-promotion,
Nihilistic claws that trap my skull under the
Immense monstrosity that is her,
That is me, that is pain, and darkness.
Never-ending deprecation and harshness
That dribbles from my mouth, floats,
Unto the air, and becomes new quotes,
For others to repeat, cockatiels,
Whose sadness is my only appeal.
This abhorrent self who can only try
And try to be nothing else, lest I die.
