“self-mutilation”
By Melisa Santana
another day of recalling a time i can’t seem
to let go of. i’ve tried forgetting, but all that does
is carve out fractured holes in which the thoughts
may flood and overtake the things that are
pure: an untainted version of myself, long before
‘first love.
’ i tend to think of him everyday, overwhelming
yet sublime; i am a sycophant of normal man
longing to be satisfied. i see him when i close my
eyes, an image that won’t fully reappear; instead, it
twists and turns, creating fake smiles out of tears
i said,
‘i miss you,
’ in a dream last night, and
it has haunted me ever since; i shall defend,
act to survive, so if he approaches me within
the confines of my vast mind, i will be forced to
attack, bear teeth, fend away heinous bites. i’ll take
a blade to his skin and stab as i please until i am
satisfied, and once i’ve completed my task, i’ll
take a step back and examine what i have done—
on the ground,
cold and bloody
and broken,
previously unseen,
lies my own corpse,
wounds gaping, jagged,
anger carved in violence.
my hopeless attempt
to cut him out.
