2 dimensional salvation
found in a razorblade
my silver deliverance.
With deeper cuts, and more reason
I walk in diverse fields,
far from the city of the weak.
Gaping lips on my wrist
speak of the resolution
to all my problems.
Faded scars,
like braille,
spell out my misery
and suffering.
Linear marks etched in my flesh
until decay and rot strike
my fading canvas like
an unnatural solvent.
It's waiting to be found
like a long lost tale of hurt
enscribed on the walls
in the house of man.
It hangs in secrecy
beneath my clothes.
Imperfect incisions
reflecting your thoughts
and opinions of my former self
line my surface in a repulsing array
of pale tiger patterns.
Evolution through laceration.
Skin slit like a cheap fabric,
releasing a river of life
on the banks of my forearm;
washing sin and shame
through fleshy deltas.
The depression equation
in emotional mathematics:
a division of veins
by a sharp edge occurs;
ecstacy felt as the crimson quotient
is discovered.
Aroused by the unending virginity in the act,
the sting ever present
as the mutilated satisfaction takes place.
My shirt hides more than my body,
but also the full extent of my descent
and a capacity of evil within me like a well.
And how I thirst.
When the blood dries
and the wounds heal,
you're left with white eyes
and pale elipses on your body
to stare at the world you hate so much.
I just found this and fucking LOL'd so I thought I'd share.
