i was tired of the pain.
i wanted to hurt something in myself.
because i hate myself.
and i hate my body.

but my skin was beautiful.
one of the few parts of my body i don't loathe.
it was looking too pure that day.
and i was hating pure.
the skin couldn't stay that way.

all it took
was that skin
and a knife
and five minutes
and four jagged cuts now oozing blood
stairstepping up my arm.
and then i felt better.

because with the cuts
and the blood
and the pain
it was no longer skin that was pure.

it was then marred
and damaged
and ugly
and broken
like the rest of me.
and consistancy existed again.

i'd set out to devour beauty.
and i did.
and life made sense again,
it was easier to hate myself again,
because any illusion of right was gone again.

and the knife was set down,
and the cuts licked off then cleaned,
and work resumed again.
with beauty destroyed, life could resume.
and so it did.