sitting in bed i'm pulling my scabs off, blood trickling down my leg—it's a good pain, as most of my pains are. the combination of release and itch. an itch you can't scratch, so you satisfy it with pain. a light pain, a short pain, just ripping a scab—like a bandaid. or a slowly, experiencing each skin cell being ripped from your body. your scab, made of dead white blood cells, losing it's only purpose, much like you did. but it's just a scab, it's so small, so why does it even matter? why does it matter if it hurts if it's only a small pain? and i don't see the harm. if it's a small pain, a small harm, is it still self-harm? it's only as deep as you let it be, and i let it be shallow. there is no harm in a little pain, but there is pain in a little harm—an objective harm. but this can't be an objective harm, only subjective and i subject that it's not harm.
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the night the stars fell - poetry collection
PoetryPLEASE READ THE CONTENT WARNINGS this poetry collection includes themes and descriptions of: sexual violence/assault/harassment PTSD hallucinations depression anxiety self harm disordered eating in my experience feeling seen through works of writ...
