I make one cut along my stomach,
For every extra roll that resides there,
Making me feel less beautiful than the others.
I make one slice on my thigh,
For every time they’ve been compared,
To the booming of a lightning strike.
I make one gash on my arm,
For every person who clung to it,
Promising support.
I make one wound on my leg,
For every man and woman,
Who once tried to open them.
I make a slit on every finger,
For every time they’ve shaken,
As I’ve wept without control.
I make a graze on my feet,
For every time they’ve failed,
And let me fall once again.
I make slash on my chest,
For every time my hearts broken,
And I’ve lost another friend.
I make an incision everywhere else,
For every time I’ve thought of suicide,
And hope this time I won’t fail.
