Poetry?

foam

thick scabs cover not-deep-enough cuts

tis but a flesh wound, and a pitiful one at that

barely hitting what people like us call styro

the first time i hit it there was more blood than i was used to

dark sticky beautiful red fluid flowing from tissue that resembled styrofoam

this beautiful purgatory between the fat layer and dermis

only reached with sharp blades doused in rubbing alcohol and unscrewed from dollar store pencil sharpeners

the scars are not even close to the beauty the scabs provide

pick off the dark maroon cells and platelets and see the blood drops once more, the shiny tissue

slight yellow and red puffy skin surround the healing flesh

the harsh but empty words thrown at you when your mom sees the scars

they aren't for her eyes and the pain is not for her heart

the small but loaded marks that litter thin skin of wrists

the crude slashes on thighs express hidden mental throes

words of an "angsty teen" and my apologies for being such

things like these bubble out of my lips like water from a spring

poison and antibiotic ointment are slathered on my soul

the contents more obscure that the shell

obsessive hobbies and semi-decent talents dotted with sharpie ink

broken records and clinging regrets splattered with black nail polish

hanes boxers and sketchbooks and cd albums and gamecube disks covered in dried flowers

neon signs and graphite pencils and band member photos shimmering with shattered snow globe glass

music merch and polaroids and drum sticks smudged with guyliner

drum books and wristbands and earbuds stained with fake blood

will you stay in here with me as the white and chrome cd player sings a tune?

melancholy music notes float and crash through the air thick with burning frankincense

choking on the smoke and humming to the sound

please stay; it gets lonely sometimes, though it's what i deserve

let me rot or revive my sunken bones with your presence