Cutting

She said...
there's no point in cutting...
it doesn't fix anything...
you get nothing out of it but a temporary relief...
and yet it's not even close to relief...

she said...
you'll regret it...
you're ruining your natural beauty...
there're other alternatives...
she said a crap load to make you stop...

but what she said doesn't matter...
because when you pull up her sweater sleeve...
her arms are evident of self-mutilation...
covered with scars and lines, criss-crossing and parallel...
abstract shapes and letters from dulled knives..

keys... pens... pins... anything you could possibly imagine..
she'd turned everyday objects into weapons against herself..
what's even more appauling are...
the recent scabs across her wrists...
maroon and jumping at you...

no, what she said doesn't matter...
for how can she help you if she can't help herself?
but her arms... so maltreated.. so hideous... so real...
is this what you have to look forward to?
then again, it doesn't matter, right?