CUT🔪

.  
At ten years old or probably age twelve,  
I started drawing on myself with blades,  
To watch intently as I'd break the skin  
To lick my lips as beads of rubies fell.  
 
But cutting fascinated me no end;  
I didn't even need my mother's kiss  
When she would tell me it would make it well,  
And then I'd go outside to ride my bike.  
 
It never crossed my mind the reasons why,  
Though none of it to do with death by snuff.  
I loved my family, did I love myself?  
I didn't want to die, I was too young.  
 
But cutting fascinated me no end;  
Though I did not know then it had a name,  
Or even if my father was to blame  
Because it was his razor blades I used.  
 
I knew I had to hide when I would cut,  
Not 'cause I thought it wrong or even bad.  
I loved the way it felt across my arms  
And didn't want to share with anyone.  
 
But cutting fascinated me no end;  
And when I'd try to stop it called to me.  
I'd also sneak the sheers to cut my hair  
In places where the deed would never show.  
 
Then came the day my mom walked in on me,  
The shower curtain on the floor in bits,  
Dad's toenail clippers clasped in my left hand.  
She asked me "Why?", I answered "I don't know."  
 
But cutting fascinated me no end;  
I have the scars where once six freckles were,  
As I attempted plastic surgery  
With double-edge and sewing thread on me.  
 
"Am I not pretty now?", the tomboy asks,  
With lovely eyebrows shaven to the quick.  
Her image of myself reflecting back  
From mirror of spattered rubies on the glass.
.