If I just would have screamed at you.
If I just would have let it all out after they
patched your wrists back up and you were
resting comfortably on my couch, your
immortal future before you, that chip on
your shoulder temporarily knocked to the
side by all the recent fanfare, but I held my
tongue, pushing that white elephant into the
closet, into the dark where it didn't exist,
letting you believe you were the center of the
universe; Lazarus back from the dead and
every ego trip since then has been a thorn
in my side, a bitter reminder that silence is
not always prudent, now wondering how to
reverse the damage; how to scream myself
hoarse by letting you know you weren't the
first one, the only one with problems and
fears who staged this ridiculous act in hopes
of testing the waters; gauging reactions, as if
all eyes were riveted on that performance, all
critical decisions delayed, the entire world
revolving around that poised and hovering
blade
Got a scar on my face.
A tiny, knotted-up looking piece
of extra flesh on my cheek
had it ever since I can remember
I've always hated it.
Sometimes I feel like a freak
It's not humongous,
or traffic-stopping,
but I hate it, nonetheless
I think I might try to get rid of it.
With the tip of an extremely sharp blade,
or a piece of really thin wire
I could try to slice it off,
but then I might not be able
to stop the bleeding
I can just imagine being rushed to the E.R.
with a blood-soaked towel crushed to the
side of my face, leaving a trail on the floor,
having to explain awkwardly that I had
a little accident while trying to perform minor
plastic surgery on myself
and I'd probably get a lecture from the doctor
on self-mutilation
and I'd most likely need stitches
and a tetanus shot...
fuck it.
The scar's really not that bad
if I wanted to suffer consequences
for my actions,
I'd slice my wrists,
instead
I try to tell myself it doesn't matter
I try to imagine a calm, blue ocean
while you are ranting and raving
in your psychotic, undying quest
to control the universe
and everyone in it
I try to ignore the pounding in my head;
the tightened nerves
the color red
I try to imagine
the mental and emotional benefits
of laying all this in a psychiatrist's lap,
but going broke in the process
I try to imagine moving far away from you,
having to find a new home and job,
starting a new life
but dearly consoled by the fact you're too cheap to call
I try to imagine
laughing wildly about all of this tomorrow
or simply
killing you today
Cynthia Ruth Lewis is 42, and is unfortunately ruled by her anger 80% of the time. Her work has appeared in Open Wide, Zygote In My Coffee, Underground Voices, Cherry Bleeds, and more. You can contact her at bookas6670@yahoo.com.