Five, six, seven, eight
Cut out your heart
And lay it on a plate.
Cut deep and cut wide
Write a poem for me
Use the word ‘cut’ twenty-seven times.
This urge to rip everything apart
To hurt yourself, bury a dart
In your heart.
This won’t go away, not today,
not tomorrow, not next year.
Until you take your arm, and slay.
So take this paper, and hold this pen instead
Let your woes bleed out in blue
Not in red.
Take your viciousness and sadness
Your ferocity and madness
The hurt you feel and the pain you conceal
And let it bleed out through words
Write cut over and over and over again.
Till you’re as sick of the word
as you are of yourself.
Did it work?
I’m afraid it won’t, my darling, I lied.
So take your blade and rip yourself apart
While I lie in my corner and suffer hell for some hours
Because I can’t cut – they told me they’d leave.