Jagged Edges

People do anything to feel powerful,

in control.

Some people scream.

Fight.

Hold a knife.

Carve into skin.

I’m a sinner who’s been having it rough.

I keep punishing, punishing myself

Praying that my blood will be just enough.

A man’s loving calls sound so corrupt,

And I cannot stand my own ‘nature,’

Because nature just feels so fucked up.

I’m a sinner who’s been having it rough.

I keep punishing, punishing myself

Praying that the blood will be just enough.

I’m a woman who’s found a lover

In someone the church calls a sister,

And I cannot bear to not love her.

I’m a sinner who’s been having it rough.

I keep punishing, punishing myself

And I stumble 

across the floor

tiles cool against my feet 

high on my own 

adrenaline 

I stagger through the doorways 

laughing softly under my breath 

as I do so 

I’m high 

floating high above 

the clouds, high as a kite, but 

I’m grounded 

I can feel the blood in my chest, in my hands, in my body 

I feel alive 

I can feel the blood on my chest, on my hands, on my body 

and I feel alive

I’m high 

on my own pain 

I’m shaking 

shuddering 

like pleasure in sex 

quivering 

as I stumble 

into the warmth of my bed 

I can’t stop shaking 

my heart thundering under my ribs 

but I have never felt so stable 

Real 

The hands on my body 

are my own 

the thoughts in my mind 

are my own 

I’m shaking and 

shaking but god 

Paranoid of becoming paranoid. Paranoid of the voices around me, in me, and the thunderous thuds around me.

Scared of the fear gripping my heart, quivering as the fear ensnares my lungs and asks whose arms I’ll be running to today.

Embrace me tenderly, 

for I am made of crooked glass 

and stained smiles. 

Embrace me tenderly, 

for I am made of sharp edges 

and bloody grins.

Embrace me tenderly, 

for if you are not careful, 

the jagged curves of my body 

may cut too deep.

Embrace me tenderly, 

for if you are not careful, 

my teeth will drag too roughly 

across your lips as we kiss.

Embrace me tenderly, 

for if you are not careful, 

you’ll break too soon 

I do not exist. 

This body is empty, a husk, 

there is no soul in its bosom.

A creature made of flesh and a canvas of scars, 

like Frankenstein’s morbid creation.

My maker did not give me a soul when they brought me to life, 

Where does my soul go, when it leaves this body?

Does it wander to heaven and converse with the angels, 

or does it visit hell and laugh with the devils? 

Perhaps it stays with me, but sitting across from me 

Touch me, I plead.

Love me, I beg.

Run your fingers through my hair and

Kiss the hills of my ribs and

Whisper sweet nothings into the

Valleys of my body.

Will you hesitate when fingertips find the scars

Sitting patiently atop my thighs?

Or will you press gentle kisses 

Into the raised white lines of my skin?

Would you rush boldly through

The plains of scars and old skin

Decorating my back

Clawing into the meadows of bloody flowers?

Kiss me, I whisper. Remind me that I am yours,

Muzzle my lips with ownership,

Collar my throat with purple kisses,

i am not achilles.

i never will be

achilles.

i am not made

of sun-kissed skin and

the grace of holy waters.

i am no young god.

instead, i fancy myself patroclus.

i am hopelessly mortal.

i am soft, pliant, and

my mind runs rampid 

with all of the anxieties 

of love.

i have not achilles’ confidence

and bravery

and all of the things which make

a tragic hero.

instead i am viciously

in love with the hero

and feel all of his pains

without ever setting foot 

on his battlefield.

all I can do is love

my achilles

and pray that I will never

mourn him