...why?
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the cuts you make are little secrets,
and the longer their duration,
the more intimately familiar you become with them.
you know the feel of each and how many are on
each arm, each knee, each calf.
your fingers slide up your arm and you count
one, two, three, four and five, six and the big one, seven.
but you have to be careful because
in between the big signs are smaller hints,
the tombstones of past blades.
yes, you become so intimately familiar with them;
and it’s infectious.
you feel them along your arm in class,
along your leg while eating dinner with your friends,
and you feel them and feel them and feel them.
but the killer question is...
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Excellent poem, henryjs7. Your imagery is the most vivid that I've read in a while, especially the thought of tombstones and your fingers tracing the cuts. One suggestion I have is to take out the simile in the first line; it may be more powerful just to say that the cuts are secrets. Your poem is succinct and begs thought about self-cutting. Fantastic work.