I like to cutmy flesh with razors,watch the blood drip,bang my arm until it hurtsmore than I can stand. To the girl who scribbled this message
on the bathroom wall of the King’s Head Pub, VancouverYou can also use the sharp slantof scissors, nail clippers,broken shards of glass foundin a church parking lot. It’s your skin, after all.It holds all of you together,a once-in-a-lifetime real leather bag.Bones and blood and dreams, discoveriesof who in this world you are, peppermint tea,burnt crusts of red meat, the lastmemories of your lover, his rushin and out of your veins, the birdseedyou let fly in the yard the dayyou decided to start collectingfeathers. It keeps all of this warmin the flow from your neckto shinbones, ribs to scars, the scratchesof your scarlet signature. Use your grandmother’s knitting needlesif they are steel and sharp, her crochet hooks.Hell, you could even use the split edge of this table.Slide your inner arm against the jagged grain,watch the splinters scrape you raw. You’d be almostdivine, maybeeven easierto love.