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.

By Em

I like writing. Words help me unpack my thoughts so things start to make sense. I suppose that once I figure out life, the universe, and everything (my thanks to Douglas Adams), I'll have nothing left to say. "Writing is an exploration. You start from nothing, and learn as you go." E. L. Doctorow


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