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Abbie Mason Poem
That simple gleam of beautifully polished silver
Never fails to get my adrenaline flowing.
I polish it every time after its done.
I can't help it.
It just looks so pretty when its been polished
It is so small, yet so powerful
It can cause so much pain,
Whether wanted, or not.
I love the feeling of the cold, sharp silver against my skin.
Just resting there, waiting.
My legs keep trembling.
Why?
I have done this hundreds of times before
And it never fails to create that feeling.
The feeling of control.
I have control now.
No matter what happens out there,
I have control in here.
I press the blade against my white skin.
A sharp pain alerts my mind.
This is the good part.
Everything is wiped from my mind.
Everything...
Except the ripping of my soft flesh.
I can feel every tiny nerve screaming at my brain,
To force itself to stop.
But my brain has stopped responding at this point.
The blood starts to trickle down my leg.
Slowly at first,
But as more blood is pumped through the small slash in my leg
It starts to roll down my leg with surprising speed.
A single drop is released from my leg.
I watch it fall to the floor.
A small splash occurs,
Not really a splash...but a,
A splatter.
Its such a beautiful red.
So pure.
many more drops of blood splatter the white tile of my bathroom.
I wipe my hands down my leg.
The blood from the wound is now lightly coating my thigh.
I lightly rub my fingertips across the scars on my thighs.
Some are smaller than others.
Some reach from one side of my thigh to the other.
I am quickly brought out of my trance by a noise in the hall.
Quickly I get up and pull a washcloth out of the cabinet.
I run the water and soak the washcloth.
I wipe my leg off
And put a bandage over it,
Just in case it bleeds anymore.
Then I wipe up the floor.
The last thing I do,
Is wipe off my blade with the cloth.
I polish it till it shines again.
I place it in a small black box,
And walk to my room.
Dropping the bloody washcloth
Into the hamper on the way.
See, good as new.
Copyright © Abbie Mason | Year Posted 2010
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Details |
Abbie Mason Poem
She yearned to break free – one day.
To find an escape from the rampart that had held her captive for so long.
That she, herself, had manufactured.
Bricking herself in as the time elapsed.
By now the walls were becoming rather lofty.
Stepping stones that she had implemented along the interior allowed her to climb the tremendous height.
Peaking over the apical, she could observe all that took place outside the bounds of her self-induced prison.
Sometimes she would even sit atop the zenith; gazing, wistfully, upon the world below.
On occasion, someone would approach by happenstance.
Acknowledging her existence, they would converse with her for a while.
Yet soon they would grow weary of it, weary of her.
Unwilling to attempt the laborious climb.
Turning their backs, they would continue about their lives.
Leaving her, once more, in solitude atop her construct.
So back into the bowels she would descend, to begin again.
Mixing the mortar – a recipe all her own.
Concocted from the course granules of pain that rubbed her raw, and the moisture that flowed from her eyes.
The stones she had come to form within herself.
Anxiety and self-loathing – layering themselves one upon the other.
Solidifying under the insurmountable pressure until they became too arduous to bear.
It would be then, that she would expurge them from within herself.
Releasing herself from the immense accumulation that threatened to devastate her humanity.
It was at this juncture, once all had been made ready, that she would yet again commence her upward ascent.
As soon as she reached the apex she would apply the next gradation of mortar and stone.
Ever increasing the elevation of her fortification, knowing well enough that it would someday grow to such altitude that no one would even know she existed at the crest of the monumental structure.
Yet, the futile considerations of deliverance still occupied her quintessence.
Copyright © Abbie Mason | Year Posted 2020
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