I swear if I have to read
one more poem
of someone cutting themselves
I’m going to cut myself.
And then I’ll write a poem about it.
Here's what it'll say-
actually in love
with my inspirational wounds.
Red badge of courage,
each drop a potential thought
rushing my veins
towards my choking brain
before fading to black."
Fading to black. That's good enough.
Good enough even to be a poet's
Or actually, not really.
The hindsight bias
of the living is the most cruel.
And the scars of wounded emotion
on my wrists and arms
would sting as I write onwards.
Because I survive, like I always do,
searching for a worthy final line...
My house is now filled with razor blades
and bloody pens.
© 2016 Parker Jennings