blood and ink

as a child i often found myself participating in sadistic activities. i felt my sins rotting into my body- into my soul as-well my veins. it kept my blood pumping throughout my body that i did neglect. i protested against consuming meals as if they’d make me feel holy again, sick i was. the blood that clawed out out my skin begging for relief of this tainted soul. the thickened red river that poured from my wrists- spilled onto pages. a paper about the “cleanse”- i had in my now “holy” body, “sickened” activities made me feel whole again. as if the river from the wrists would fix the tears i wept. if the bandages on my now healed wrists would fix the bandages on my tainted soul. i had once had a lords preacher tell me: “the lord will forgive you for the things you have done to yourself”- i did not need the lord forgiveness. i had begged for the lords help- prayed my tears away for a simple sign. i wept my sorrows into letters for their lord for him to kill me painless, if this was our god i did not want him. the lord never watched me as i couldn’t fathom the idea of being normal again. i was born like this i suppose- hungry for the blood spill that would give me relief from my sorrows even if it was for a few divine seconds. i sit on my cold floor the same ones i had once bled onto and poured my soul onto. i write as if my sorrows are not lingering. i write like my wrists are not bandaged and wrapped. i write like this was a tragic past, like the light switch was flipped on into the dark room of grief but that is not the truth. i weep onto the pages, my tears and blood based on painful past become the ink from my stories. i write as if the ink on pages will rewrite the sorrowful story of my past. i know it won’t. i beg the pages to tell me i’ll be a changed women now. they laugh as the ink spills onto the paper. i tell myself i’ll write tomorrow instead.