Stigmata

ledworldnuke's picture

A friend of mine asked me today why i had cut myself a few months back..
they asked me why anyone would want to harm themself like that telling
me that they would never understand how i could bear to scar
myself like that.. And i told him..

"I cut myself because the pain of cutting myself is better than cutting
your soul. Having wounds agianst something like your mind or your faith
is a thousand times worse than having blood poor from your wrist until
you pass out. And you become so invovled with that intangable pain.. that
you literally just want some real pain so that ou have something to show
for your suffering."

they didnt get it.. so i wrote him this.. and yeah he said it was an
extremely deppresing piece of writing.. but that it helped him understand.
This is what i wrote..

--Stigmata--

This is the cutters kiss
Decadent dance of knives and razorblades
That romances the flesh and whispers sweet sorrow
Wounds that are self afflicted to the wrists
Of the scorned and the mocked, the depressed and the unloved
Misery for the faithfully unfaithful
Stigmata for the ungrateful
The walkers and wearers of black and sin
Who dance to chords of starving artists
And live in hell on earth, hallelujah what a life
If even for a moment you could take a second of their pain
Chisel it into your soul and scar your faith
Then you might cry until your shadow bleeds down your face
Pretty little Barbies and Kens whisper when you look away
Their parents bought them a life to live
And your life is one that you found sifting through the streets
Of a city that mirrors your dark and broken way
Whose streets run red with the blood
Of a thousand beautiful rag dolls, like you
Who cry their eyes out then bleed the pain away
The burn of a knife through your flesh or a dagger through your chest and neck
More comforting that the cuts and the bruises
That pain inflicts against that worn out soul
One that your mother bought for half price at thrift
And tried sewing glitter and bangles to the edges
To make it shine through the dust and the gloom that it draws
Only to find its fire and drive and hope is all gone
As it wastes away on the walking corpse of their children
Fading, and graying and loosing another sparkle and glimmer everyday
Bleeding and crying, withering and sighing
Fighting to survive its battle
Against the Stigmata of the cutters faith
The whisper of the childs blade
One that promises a more beautiful pain
That brings their sorrow and guilt to be liquid and stain
White dresses and half smiling souls
Becoming quite vibrant in scarlet and crimson at the edges
Until the madness and depression become an obsession
And the child dreams of having hung themselves
With the chord that the their mother gave them
Before becoming addicted to the drinks and the drugs
And finally ending it with a dive from the ledge
Fight on empty soul
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