Cutter

by Amy Soricelli

I cut myself into pieces.
Slices so deep my name screams through my skin; angry letters carved cold -
drops of blood; a frozen door opened wide.

Long sleeves always in summer  - pull/pull/pull
you can't see it gripped tight into my fingers- the edges of cloth
protecting like a priest.

No one ever looks/no one sees -
no one checks underneath the white of my shadowy skin;
it is dark inside my brain.

I use a knife -mostly a key/ i like the keys.
Back and forth/ back and forth across my wrist over
and over until it speckles like paint.

Splatters like Pollock.
Then I slide it swift across my jeans;
dark graffiti elbows and knees.

I am the dark staircase; the hallway lights flickering
on/off like guilty moths.  I am the flat key hard against
the grain of my silent blue veiny skin;

I am hard black pudding thoughts that crease
the curtains silent.   It Feels good - the small freckled pain
across my long straight arm; dotted lines leaving a trail

bread crumbs in the darkest of forests.
I see the blood bubble up slowly then wipe it
fresh-off like a magic act.

I am a blood red mouth open into the night.
I pull my fingers across the faint scars
and make them scream.