Copyright, Iggy

It is beautiful, in a way.
The deep, rich crimson,
Stark against my pale skin
Whose only color comes from the
Scores of bright pink scars
The hundreds of faded cuts.
The red is bordered sharply
By the white of my skin.
Bordered nearly as sharply
As the razor which made that
This beauty is deeper than mere looks.
This beauty has feeling.
This beauty is all I shall ever know.
Yet I am content with it.
A pretty face is far more common
Than a beautiful cut,
and the cut is far easier to obtain.
This, my beauty.

I Am… Not

Copyright, Iggy

I am.
I am not.
I do not exist.
I am like a mirage upon the barren desert sand.
I am.
I am not.
I may be seen only in desperation,
In delusion.
I am.
I am not.
I am nothing to everyone.
I am something to no one.
I am not.
Not “I am.”
But a shadow of a life I am.
A life, I am not.
I do not exist.
Perhaps once I was.
Now I am not.
Perhaps someday I shall be.
Now I am not.
I am naught but an emotional wasteland,
A pile of scars,
A pile of hurt,
A pile of nothing at all.
For though I might have been and I may yet be,
I am nothing now.

Parting in Reverse

Copyright, Iggy

cutting is like
the parting of the Red Sea
and the parting in reverse

the part is the parting
of land,
not water
and the only when
the sea’s been parted
can the liquid come forth

the skin parts under
the caress of the blade
and obediently, the red sea
is released


Copyright, Iggy

cutting gives me fake euphoria
“Self-Induced Happiness”
SI has a new definition
Euphoria is nice, except…
I have nothing to be happy about
It puts up a fake front
of being normal
and alive
but I’m neither.
I know it.
It doesn’t show…
the blood conceals it
as the blood congeals on my warm flesh
soon to be cold forever
but not soon enough.


Copyright, Iggy

How have tears run dry?
Once so plentiful,
Ready to come when called.
Now, they hide when beckoned.
Show themselves only when they are not needed.

Burning, tingling,
Once a forerunner to a good long cry,
Is now the good long cry in its entirety.

The heart knows what is needed,
But the body chooses to ignore.
Perhaps it has learned that the only tears worth shedding
Are red.

The Truth

Copyright, Iggy

Truth is such a scary word,
Honesty such a frightening quality.
To tell the truth, to be honest,
Means risking it all.
Gaining it all?
Losing it all?
Perhaps making no difference at all,
As the world refuses to acknowledge the confession.
Hiding what I am,
Every day.
It feels like such a lie.
I am someone else.
What I seem to be is a false front,
Put up and kept up for my protection.
In my heart and in my soul,
I am more.
And I am less.
A truer person,
But a lesser being.


Copyright, Iggy

Sometimes I want to hurt.
So I drag the blade –
gently, not too deep –
down my skin.
It makes just a scratch
but it stings.
A good, strong hurt.
The hurt distracts me from my pain.

Sometimes I want to bleed.
So I push the blade in
gather my breath
and pull it sharply through
a few seconds of silvery white flesh
then a flood of red.
A few more times.
Such a relief, to know I can bleed.

Sometimes I want to scar.
So I push the blade in
force it down.
Make a deep, horizontal cut
the edges stay far apart.
They scar.
New pink flesh must be made,
to fill in that gap.
I have the scar, so I never forget.


Copyright, Iggy

Why is a cut
such a blissful release?

How does it free my soul
and release my sorrow?

Why does it release me,
calm me, help me?

How do I manage
to surrender myself
surrender myself to a rush of pain
and a rush of relief?

No matter how
or why
it works.
That’s enough for me


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