too many to count. although i have attempted to number, catalog each one… no doubt in the light of day, in the wake of a new resolution, after the storm… in the shadow of shame. but a new one always seems to appear… or two… or sometimes sixteen, and my census is once again incorrect, incomplete… not having taken into account that my demons did not sign their names to my carefully crafted contract with hope, with healing, with the promise of freedom. they refuse to commit to leaving any inch of bare skin unmarred.
i am littered with the pink, waxy trails telling of battles and intimate love affairs with blades… and the unmistakable mark of a flame’s kiss. penance for her sins… permanent punishment that somehow has yet to pay the price.
and i am ashamed… of what they shout… speak in leu of my stubborn silence. they scream of weakness… of the wretched tears my eyes refuse to release… bear my nakedness to a world i seek so desperately to hide from. and i wonder if i will have any words left to spew from these lips when my hands finally put the blade down.
