Today, we feature a poem that Laysa wrote. She thought it might be too dark. But I think I’d check out her previous post here. This provides a context, and perhaps the writer ends up surprised by the Light at the end . . .
I applied a carefully calculated amount of pressure
as I worried it along my sore and reddened skin
I welcomed the burn
Slowly, I scraped until I felt the pinch of breaking skin.
The dull blade lined with
little droplets of blood
I poured all my hate, and my hope, into this secret moment.
But no matter the depth
or length of the wound,
the shedding of my blood
could never be enough.
The relief was short-lived
The sickness within me still stirred
And it grew:
It made its home inside me, nestling
its way into the walls of my body and soul,
filling me until I thought I would burst and
cave in at the same time
I could taste its vileness in the back of my throat.
My heart raced, all the while pumping and
spreading the sickness through my veins:
GET OUT! I wanted to shout
But it spread, like it always did.
I sat there trembling
as small beads of blood formed
into little tears that
as if my very skin were crying
No cleaner than I was before
but satiated, at least for now.
My patchwork skin bore witness
to my previous attempts of cleansing:
I stared at the scars, not really seeing them
and not really thinking
exhausted from the raging emotions of the last few minutes.
I could suddenly see specks of Light from afar
Was I imagining them?
If that Light were close enough, perhaps I would
see the fruitlessness of this ritual, of my sacrifice .
There is nothing
I can do
That Light was never meant