Beautiful girl; Daughter of the heavens.

Aching to smile; surrendered to tears.

Didn’t she read the medical journals, circa 1872?

“Blood-letting has been determined to have no healing benefits.”

But that’s what she does …

since she can’t afford liposuction ;

Or doesn’t like the taste of her own vomit;

Or she’s realized she’ll never look remotely like Miley Cyrus; even with her clothes on.

“Just one more slash; It calms you;”

It does.

That’s the oxymoron, the sinister miracle of it all.

It does.

It does.

Confusion clears, rage relaxes, peace prevails.

Wounding herself for her unholy trinity of transgressions:

anxiety, depression and aloneness.

 

Until that day -

In the emergency room;

Or in her lonely apartment;

Or in her dorm when her roommate’s gone for the weekend;

And her forearm’s wrapped in humid crimson bandages -

Finally she imagines - Determined it’s a lie, still dreaming that it’s true -

Maybe there’s no cleansing in her blood, only the incurable DNA of a fallen race,

Perhaps broken glass is no crown of thorns

Perhaps razor blades make poor nails that will never hold her scarred wrists to the Cross of self-redemption.

My darling, by your own stripes you’ll die.

By His stripes you’re healed.

Try to imagine. 

Try to believe.