Sometimes the wounds

I inflict on myself

Are administered

With surgical precision

Using the sharp knife

Of bitter self-recrimination


On the long dark nights

Of the soul

I am capable of

Carving hundreds

Of tiny cuts

On my heart, on my psyche

With biting edges of an origimi crane


If the guilt and feelings

Of unworthiness are

Overwhelming  enough

I will then pour

Orange juice on them

For good measure


Leaving me sticky

Seeping blood and citrus

Reassured for the moment

By the exquisite pain

Breaking through the numbness

That I must still be alive

Still have substance


© 2017 Christine Elizabeth Ray – All rights Reserved



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