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THE CUTTER
By Sherry Asbury
There is so much blood on the handkerchief
That she must give it a burial, in its
Plastic bag, to the bottom of the garbage sack.
The glittering sharps are laid out precisely,
In surgical, soldierly rows.
No might exists that could ever call her back.
On the elevator the weeping cuts bleed through
The sleeve of her sweater,
Like blinking warning lights. She sees nothing there.
“Kitty scratch you,” the morons glibly inquire.
It’s her fucking arm and she doesn’t
Like it either, but she ignores those who stare.
If she could tell you what demon drives her to cut,
It would help both of you understand,
But she is sung to by this need…it never relents.
Pain lulls her away from unbearable truth.
It takes to heal, and she is not
Strong and the razor’s song is so intense.
People flinch and look away – aghast, horrified.
She knows they wonder what kind
Of human self-mutilates, but she doesn’t know.
Mutilate, ruin, draw pus from the deepest depths
Of the despair and uncertainty
That make her crave the razor’s vicious glow.
end
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