Wrong.
Locations
The red comes in ribbons
The water stings as it carries them away
And I am soothed.
I push the metal further into my flesh,
Shaking, sobbing, ashamed,
And I feel I am paying my dues.
Left to right,
Forward and backward,
Never pausing,
Because this is what I was meant to do.
God has a plan
And mine is to be the example
Of what never to become.
A figure of loathing, I was called.
A fake.
A dramatic.
"You don’t feel that," he said.
I tried, again, to confide.
He said, as before, “No,
You are fine.”
I agreed with him that night, saying,
"No, I don’t feel sad."
Because I feel absolutely nothing anymore.
Never will, never have.