I cut my wrist with an Exacto blade,
made an incision to bilge the blue vein
so I might see my blood, reassure myself
it was pulsing.
When the wound bled wet and red,
I wrapped it tight with a kitchen cloth,
guarded my sleep throughout the night,
and swore never again to come so close
The cutting was a bad experiment.
But how else might I feel the aching,
except to excise it from beneath my skin?
How else to recount and atone for my sins,
except to slay myself for God?
They told me I needed better coping
skills and meds, but really the bleeding
was enough to engulf the anguish
and flood my veins with vital signs
of living again.
Marking my skin, the scar is now
as thin as that blade, drawing a line
between dying and survival, reminding me
revival is as close as my wrist.
© Ami Mattison