Baby Soft Skin

Until you've taken a blade to the baby soft skin
that your mother used to kiss in bathtubs,
whilst making your soapy hair stick up in triangles;
please don't write poetry
about the beauty of slicing your body.
Don't you dare try to sell me
on how gorgeous it is for girls
to wear sleeves made out of scar tissue.
Don't make a pretty picture
out of a boy who is so broken
he rips himself open.

You've no idea what it's like when he kisses me;
his hands skip over my hips like they're afraid to be poisoned.
You haven't gone all summer wearing long sleeved shirts
because you don't want anyone to see.
You haven't watched other people's shoulders
for evidence of blades
just to make sure your friends are okay.
You haven't sat in class while they discuss self-harm,
breaking a sweat, trying to keep your head down.
You haven't witnessed the people you love
learn to treat you like you're a hydrogen bomb.
This isn't beautiful.
This is wrong.

So don't you dare try to sell me that this is all beautiful.
That tearing yourself open is something to be proud of.
Because you will never truly understand
until you've been so low,
you feel the need to rip your own skin apart.
Just to feel something,
absolutely anything,
other than pain.