Burn

These scars on my arms are not a fashion statement.

They have never been a cry for help.

By the time I discovered the sharp relief

of a cold blade,

I had already screamed myself to oblivion.

My throat was already raw

from the fire of rage and pain

that tried to claw its way out of my chest.

They asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up.

I still don't know and I'm 30 years old.

When I was a little girl I wanted

to be a ballerina.

They told me I couldn't be that,

so I wanted to be a writer.

The thing is- if you write anything,

you're already a writer.

So I never set my sights any further.

The years got darker and colder,

and I'm sitting here approaching that 30th year

wondering where all the time went.

I have spent too much time

flirting with death,

trying to find that next rush of

pain to carry me on until the following moment.

My hands always shaking in anticipation because I know

if they are mine doing the shredding,

if it is my match burning,

if I am the source of my own pain,

I expect it.

I can control it.

Like doing a controlled burn

in the forest, I alone have the power

over the very things that threaten to destroy me-

and that no longer makes me weak or vulnerable.