Cutter

Fuckin doctor said I hacked myself cosmetically,
unzipped my hide for ornament,
slit me down to bone for decoration,

as if I ribbed my arms with scars for want of bangles,
bit my lips to bloom for need of rouging,

burst my knuckles off the wall for ruby rings.

Fluff.
I’d no need of others’ eyes.
Others’ eyes were cheap
and cheapening as plastic beads.

For the hell of it I cut.

I cut, and, I cut, and I cut.
I cut out of a musical disgust,
to ease the dreary two-tone of my pulse.

I cut to feed my changeling packs,
my wolves, my varnished skulls, my rats.

I cut to cool a fever in my organs off.
I cut to bleed the bilious humours out.
I cut for victims everywhere.
I cut for sisterhood.

I cut to starve the seeping creature
crouched in the curls of my gut.

Most of all I cut,
I cut, and, I, cut, and, I cut
to unravel the blood rope,
to snip the twining miles of blue
that pinned me to the world…

feel that rush of warm release
blurred cacophony recede
body loosening from earth…

till the gorgeous day I slashed myself to weightlessness

and floated up a tunnel in the sky

and climbed as I cut
and cut as I climbed
and cut as I climbed

and climbed

as

I

cut.

*****

Dave Lordan, from forthcoming e/audio/print collection Snowflakes. Pre-order @ dlordan@hotmail.com