All the voices in my head
The overwhelming urge
To feel blood and pain
Is like silent insanity
And I’m losing control.
It’s screaming in my ears
To drag the blade
Across scarred flesh
Opening new wounds
To put the old to shame.
Emotions swirl inside
They’ve been building for months
inside my chest to spread
To fingertips to grasp
The silver blade of life.
I write words on flesh that
When no one is watching
Turn to poetry
A story told on every inch of skin
A myriad of scars
that speak in voices all their own
Some feather-light strokes a whisper
And others heavy ink screams.
There are those who say that I am vain
For loving myself too much;
For adoring all my curves and edges
Every dimple and mark and such.
I tell them the story of how I gained my power
From the war I once waged on my skin
I show them my lesions, my battle scars,
I share with them every sin.
For there was a time, not long ago
When I was my own worst enemy
I hurt myself, my body and soul in ways
For which there was no remedy.
One day a girl looked up at me
And asked about my scars
She called me an angel fallen from heaven
As pretty as shooting stars.
In memory of that girl I stand,
As proud as an old oak tree
Because I have learned to love myself;
I have earned every part of me.
the Honest Poet