Shallow Cuts

Shallow Cuts

It builds so slowly, but sometimes flares up like fire
the need, craving, soul shaking desire for blood.
Those beads and ribbons of crimson water
welling to the surface, shallow cuts, shallow cuts.
Just a quick little sting and it flows like molasses
a deeper bite and it rushes like a stream
a babbling brook of my madness,
tracing spirals of lunatic purpose
and clotted promises of breath.
A controllable breakdown, focused and fixed
usually safe as houses, as these things go.
Then there are the overzealous motions
more Band-aids, peroxide splashing into the sink.
These are the bad times, the darkest midnights
when my soul is being gnawed to pieces
by deafening voices and half-glimpsed phantoms.
When my very reality crumbles to dust
I can wield a tiny sword and keep me whole.
In the buffet and noise of houses falling
I curl into a ball around ribbons of blood drops
and anchor myself to life in its forms,
proof of beating hearts and biological rules.
Of course, I know it’s not stable
positive id of my broken mind
my shattered cup of brain, leaking madness,
but in the bad moments, the dark times
it keeps my head above water
on a raft of scars to form and metal flashing.
Dancing precariously on the rim of a razor blade
like some demented high school emo brat
it's stooping to a pitiful low, a petulant act
but sadly, sometimes it keeps me here
a toehold on a shaky reality.
hat else can I do when it’s that bad?
I reach hands trembling for the knife
skipping veins and seeking my heart.