Someone’s child
Cries tonight,
A knife at her virgin skin
To slice the unspoken pain
To give it shape and form.
The truth of blood dripping,
Meaning where words are empty,
Content when arms are empty,
Feeling when hearts are empty,
Life when souls are empty.
Thus the schematic
Is writ upon parchment
Of living girlish skin,
To say: I hurt, therefore I am.
I am without content.
I am without holding.
I am without soul.
I am only this cutting.
She wrote:
“I think I am six years dead
inside
and the rest of me
just hasn’t caught up yet.
I haven’t felt anything
In so long,
Not even when carving
Aeroplane schematics
Or ticktacktoe games into my arm.
Nothing.”