I like to cut

my flesh with razors,

watch the blood drip,

bang my arm until it hurts

more than I can stand.

‍

 To the girl who scribbled this message

 on the bathroom wall of the King’s Head Pub, Vancouver

‍

You can also use the sharp slant

of scissors, nail clippers,

broken shards of glass found

in 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, discoveries

of who in this world you are, peppermint tea,

burnt crusts of red meat, the last

memories of your lover, his rush

in and out of your veins, the birdseed

you let fly in the yard the day

you decided to start collecting

feathers. It keeps all of this warm

in the flow from your neck

to shinbones, ribs to scars, the scratches

of your scarlet signature. 

‍

Use your grandmother’s knitting needles

if 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 almost

divine, maybe

even easier

to love.

‍