Bleeding Freedom

I picked at myself,
mercilessly
digging ragged nails
deep into my flesh,
an endless cycle
of scratches and scabs
and scars.

I needed something,
anything,
to dig into me
deeper than you did.

I made everything bleed,
little places,
small cuts,
secret sores
you could not see,

and gaping gashes
you callously ignored,
even when they turned
everything white
to unbleachable red.

I tried to protect
my sensitive skin
with an armor of anger,
but it was too soft
to defend me
from your
heartless slashings.

And when it all stung
more than I could bear,
I fled from you,
stifling my sobs
in triangular corners,
while you judged
my salty tears
to be unworthy lies.

You busied yourself
handing down
searing sentences
that compelled me
to be who I couldn’t.

My painful pleas
fell forever
on the deaf ears
of a man-boy whose
helpless pity
for his momma’s
manipulative tears
and unreasonable reasons
had long ago
weathered his skin
into impenetrable
callousness.

All those years
covering the sores
we ripped in me,
unable to resist
new wounding or
fend off
toxic infection.

I served my time
as best I could,
my skin tearing
and wearing so thin
there was little
left to gouge,

until one day
stinging from
a nasty gash
I knew would kill me
if I stayed
in this filth,

I crawled into
my corner,
unable to stifle
my ocean
of salty sobs.

I hid in that dark,
digging my
ragged nails
into what was left
of my flesh,
trying to make
something,
anything
dig into me
worse than you had.

And like a miracle,
I found a way
to make the tiniest cut,
with such perfect precision,
that it
finally
bled out my heart,

and freed me.

~ cj 2013.12.03