 | Well, that's the poem I wrote after I cut my wrists. I had had finished a major fight with my mother - one of many, and much of this one this one my memory blocks - and I went upstairs and sat at my computer, sobbing. Just for the record, I am very good at holding my temper, and it takes a lot to upset me. Just something... snapped...
I listened to 'Messiah' over and over, and somehow took my grandmother's wooden letter opener from her desk. I dragged it, hard, over my left hand. The pain felt remarkably good, actually. I was going to do another in the opposite direction, but I was in the middle of a bout of anti-Christianity at the time. No, I don't hate Christians or the Christian God, I just don't particularly like the religion itself. Anyway, I didn't want a bruise shaped like a cross on my hand. So, I marked my hand, again and again, until it was the shape of a pentacle. I look back on it, and it seems really sacriligious, and I regret doing it in that shape.
So, I went downstairs, looking for my grandmother's camera. I wanted to do my own photography for my book of poetry, so I thought that might be something to put in. I couldn't find her camera, but then next thing I knew I was looking for a razor. I had to unscrew one from a small pencil sharpener, and then I ran it over the bruises, then, tentitively, across my wrist.
One of the things I hated about it was the fact that I didn't tell my parents, and I wasn't planning on telling her. My sister was chattering at me, and I just wanted everyone to get the hell away from me. So, I went out on the porch, sat in a chair, and just stared at the blood for a little while, then wrote this poem. I rather wish the cuts had left scars, just as sort of a legacy, but I suppose I don't need the reminder, do I?
That wasn't one of my favorite days.
My thanks to my friends - Courtney, Kathy, Anya... Nat especially. Thank you, because the day after you really helped me. I promise I don't want to do it again. I know, Nat; next time I'll call you. |