Sonnet to Self Harm
Location
As the blood bubbles upon my pale skin;
I inhale my inhibitions quickly
Seldom has a tear graced my chin
My mother will never know her angel's sickly
Seventeen years of emotional wear
My aura is that of an elegant ghost
I'm enshrouded by words of their disdain
Not smart enough or appealing as most
Here I am faced with a great wooden door
One side is filled with strength and beauty, how ideal
The second is reality, life's chore
Humanity is gilded with much zeal
If I could cure us of something crucial
It would be making our life less frugal