deepundergroundpoetry.com
C.
C/U/T/S
That run across my wrists
And the insides of my thighs
On my legs and arms
Born from bloodied cries
They spell words of failure
Fat and lies
These scars don't make me beautiful
They're my saintly prize
I tried to martyr myself
My life for yours
But as usual, I fell for the wrong
These cuts don't spell out love,
They were spoken by whores.
That run across my wrists
And the insides of my thighs
On my legs and arms
Born from bloodied cries
They spell words of failure
Fat and lies
These scars don't make me beautiful
They're my saintly prize
I tried to martyr myself
My life for yours
But as usual, I fell for the wrong
These cuts don't spell out love,
They were spoken by whores.
Published 12th Aug 2014
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13th Aug 2014 9:14am
My dearest Ben ,
I've never been a cutter , i don't like it , i think i have enough scars to not want to create my own . I've never found a reason to think it was ok to do it .
BUT
Reading this , in some weird sort of way , makes it feel right . Like it's the correct thing to do . It didn't feel wrong . Just born of agony.
You are the first person , that made me feel something other than annoyance to cutting. Thank you .
Loads of love .
I've never been a cutter , i don't like it , i think i have enough scars to not want to create my own . I've never found a reason to think it was ok to do it .
BUT
Reading this , in some weird sort of way , makes it feel right . Like it's the correct thing to do . It didn't feel wrong . Just born of agony.
You are the first person , that made me feel something other than annoyance to cutting. Thank you .
Loads of love .
