the car ride home after my mother finds out i self-harm (tw: sh)

i remember the disapproving eyes

each iris bloodshot// growing twisting in on itself

brakes, tires screeching on expanse of tarmac

summer delirium.

​

show me your wrists, little girl,

show me your wrists, foolish little girl.

did you really think slashes of metal, tiger stripes

could ever be caused by tiger fangs

when you are just a child in a costume?

​

i bite down, morphine, oh even jesus of nazareth

bled sometimes- perhaps i will swap knives for nails,

razors for crosses, perhaps i will string my putrid flesh

to a holy name that i do not deserve. affixed to a crucifix,

gun to the tine. mother, you and i, you understand, gilded together

​

by nothing except for shared genes, so i claw my way up

ferns draped from proximal phalanx like banisters woven from

arachne’s hedonistic web of mendacity. i’m sorry, mother, but i

want to live condemned to misery, i want to drown in a trench

​

of unfailingly-constant torment. bury me, mother, bury me and

show me your wrists.

bury me and shroud me with tiger skin, stripes stripes i see patterns and

show me your wrists.

i see patterns and they swim before chatoyant yellow eyes, swimming like electrified

show me your wrists.

like electrified little eels. electrify me, mother, stick me in the chair and shackle me to

show me your wrists.

shackle me to this path i have “chosen”, this path that narrows and twists until i walk

show me your wrists.

​

this path that narrows and twists until i walk alone;

show me your wrists.

this path that narrows and twists

you make me sick

until i do not walk at all.

​

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