And I've given myself a lot of them: scars. But my blade of choice isn't made of metal.
It's made of emotion.
Slash.
The shallow feelings that fill my bathetic sentiments with puffed air.
Slash.
Erratic, diametrical irrationality nascent from obsession.
Slash.
No sooner have the latest scars turned from pink to white than I streak them red, agitated again.
Slash.Slash.Slash.
It feels so good: to hurt so much.
Before all those scars, now hidden behind sleeves of silence or verbally veiled according to my own semasiology. Before all this: a beautiful lamb without blemish, without scars. Now ravaged and torn by the wolves I costumed in sheep's clothing--no longer suitable for sacrifice.
SLASH.
1 comment:
Paige, this is excellent. I especially liked the lamb/wolf metaphor in the last paragraph, but the entire thing had a tone of hopelessness and despondency that had more to do with the world than with the cutter. Basically, you're writing is, as always, superb. Oh, and PS have you seen that movie? Because I want to. It has a great soundtrack.
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