Poems

Aglophobia/Agliophobia

I brush along a line,

Paint covering the pencil-made outline.

I place my brush into the cup,

Swishing the liquid around,

Mesmerising me,

Hypnotising me.

I raise it out of the cup.

The brush flowing over my skin,

Softly covering myself in colourful paint.

The bright colours send happy shivers through my body.

I add colours to the painting.

First yellow,

Then blue,

And finally red.

As I apply the red paint, it suddenly drips from the painting,

Like the red liquid dripping from my arm.

I look down,

Realising there is now a knife,

Grasped by my fingers.

The knife dragging across my skin,

Revealing the red paint of my own,

Oozing out of me.

My attitude grows fierce,

My strikes become hard and wretched.

I strike down angrily.

The strikes of red become thicker.

My attitude,

Angry,

Violent.

Eyes closed,

Tears falling slowly,

My strokes becoming slower,

Sloppy.

The brush stops,

Dropping from my unsteady hand.

A pain in my heart,

The ground becoming closer,

A crash as my body hits the floor.

In the darkness, I hear whispers.

They speak to me,

Telling me to cross over.

The paint exploding from behind me,

I run.

Finally, I have crossed.

I fall to my knees.

It grows inside of me,

Rising every second,

I feel it.

I look forward,

Into darkness.

I see the paint leak from nowhere in particular.

I feel corrupted,

Looking at the dripping liquid.

I am reminded of the wounds.

I look down at my arms.

Scars trail from my hands all the way up my arms.

I softly stroke my fingers across my face,

Feeling the rough scars under my fingertips.

I trail down my neck,

Feeling plenty more rough lines.

Scars, cuts,

What do they mean?

Nothing.

Unbothered by pain . . .

Or at least that is what people think of me.

That is how I portray myself.

Building up a guard of paint,

Protecting me from others,

From myself,

From my fear.

I cut into my skin once more,

Unreluctantly.

I can not let them see my weaknesses.

I will never let them see.

I will never let them know that I am afraid . . .

Afraid of this pain,

All pain,

Any pain.

The blood seeps out from my wounds

As I think my final thought;

I am so afraid.