The Poems of Her

Cut? Pinch?

I've never cut

I've picked up the blade

Run it softly along my skin

But never cut

Never bled

I know the pain will some how bring relief

But I've never cut

I pinch though

My arms covered with red puffy crescent shapes from where my nails dug in

The evidence where I pressed until my nails met

They fade, eventually

I pick up the knife and wonder, why is it so different?

I don't hate myself, most days

Pain simply brings relief and distraction

Perhaps that's why I pinch

And don't cut

I pick up the blade though

I want to understand how you feel

You cut

I pinch

I want to know if were different or the same

I want to understand

Is that wrong?

Am I sick or stupid?

I just want to relate

Because were both in pain

And we both use pain to make it go away

But some how I don't think you would consider us the same

I think you would be disgusted by me

Or laugh at my feeble pain

I think compared to you, you would consider my pinching nothing

But maybe that's just me and my insecurities

Perhaps you would nod and remark "creative" then return to your cigarette

If I showed you my arms

Would you hate me?