Poem written at 3 am

Yesterday afternoon was very bad. I started crying at lunchtime, and cried off and on for several hours. I finally called Jeff to ask him to leave work early, to pick me up and take me home. I left at 330 pm. I'd cried myself to a headache, and my eyes were so sore. After some rest, and a listen to one of the depression treatment CDs that Lynn gave me a while back, I was better. Not super, but better.

I woke around 230 am, and a poem seemed to start writing itself in my head. I got up a bit before 3, found a notebook with some blank sheets in it, and started writing. By 330, I was done. I may do some editing later, but for now, it seems not bad, and says what I meant to say.



Self-Mutilation


In my dream I
move the knife
along my left arm,

creating pain
that can be seen,
where before

the pain had lain
inside my head,
invisible.

Like an artist
carving, I push
and glide the knife,

releasing blood
to add some color
to the sculpture,

paint streaming red
throughout, then pooling
in the crevices.

When I wake,
my blood runs black
on paper,

my tools not
knife and blood,
but pen and ink.

Out of tears,
finally quiet,
I put this weary day

to bed, pull the covers
over that sad girl
who cannot stand

herself. I write this poem.