An old poem.

mild trigger warning – some references to self-harm

I’m working on my autobiography. I’ve finished it, in that I’ve written something that has a beginning, a middle, and an end. I’m now starting on the edits and it’s proving to be a challenge. All flashbacks and ugly feelings and acting out when I’m done.

I spent yesterday in a depressed wallow following four hours of work on it Monday. Perhaps I will work on it less each day – I have a tendency toward overkill.

I came across an old poem I wrote that I included in the autobiography on the chapter on cutting and self-mutilation. I wrote it after I had burned myself with my cigarette, a behaviour I indulged in for about a year.

 I try to pull back but am drawn to the heat.
It tempts and taunts with cries of “coward”.
In despair I grasp my head, squeeze hard, shake it.
This driving pressure makes me insane;
I want it gone but it grows stronger instead.
I sit still, hoping that this time it won’t get me; but the wish comes too late.
I’m in the grip of a rage that wants to maim and destroy;
there's no pulling back.
Instead, I watch in detached horror as blisters form,
feeling in the mutilation of the moment, a desired sense of ease.

2 thoughts on “An old poem.

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