You wear them across your skin like inkless tattoos.
You wear them adamantly for all to see.
I hate the way you crave like a starving child from Africa, you crave.
Yearning and pleading for attention.
I see the gash
A stitched up piece of flesh and I wonder,
how could this mutilation help?
You wear 30 sutures
So proud for all to see.
I stand there bemused, lost and confused.
I see it in your eyes,
The contemplating of change.
I see the way you look at your self and I wonder..
why do you feel so inclined to show the world your pain?
On your arms you wear your history like rings on a tree,
years of turmoil for all to see.
Your skin tells tales from past to present.
I read it like Braile across your arms and down your legs.
But I am not blind
And I do not choose to fulfill your craving.
I will not fulfill your craving.
You beg like a like a heroin addict for another dose.
Another dose of " I'm sorry"
Another dose of "you're crazy!"
Another dose of "why?"
" I feel the blade cut across my skin and the pain inside is masked by the pain outside," you say.
I loathe the face you make when you tell me.
The face you make that is searching for a reaction,
whether bad or good, a reaction.
All to justify your mutilation.
We all hurt ourselves in one way or another.
Perhaps we do it to feel.
Perhaps not to feel.
We all partake in the ritual that is self mutilation.
BUT these wounds are not battle wounds
Yet YOU wear them like metals of honor for all to see.
Your pain infuriates me.
I'm infuriated by your tattoos.
It bothers me that I care.
There are greater evils in this world to worry about.
I would rather pull teeth than sit and listen to you.
Listen to you plead for pity
and write, yet another, Braile story.
These tattoos may be symbols of history,
but they are not something that I choose to see.
