Pockets

Pens and a razor.
Some bandaids.
A wipe.

Thesea are all things
in my pocket
at this very moment.
These are all things
I cannot live without.

The pens draw designs
Slowly on my body.
Wherever the pens go
They're on my skin
Waiting to be traced.

Traced by the razor
Residing next to them.
Just a small blade
Only used in emergency
Situations.

Carved and bleeding
My masterpiece finishes
Blood starts clotting
Almost immediately.

This is where the wipe
Comes into play.
Always on its guard
It sweeps the evidence
Of any new marks.

The bandaid covers up
Just simply put.
It hides my shame.
Until the next time I cut.

These are the things in my pocket.