Blunt, scratching
Paper clips bite;
Etching suicide letters
On limbs.
Arms and legs
Grafted onto sickly wraiths.
You wanna pity them?
The ones who just love to hurt?
The Dark, the Reclusive, the Bitter -
Drenching their bodies
In a new war paint,
Crying for salvation - understanding -
Through the sunlight.
Through makeshift wire knives,
They carve superficial please for attention.
Writing their own obituaries,
While humming joyous madrigals of sorrow.
Don't you want to hug them?
Dry their Visine tears?
Then succumb and join the thriving cult;
Carving the mantras into a leg.
It's the…
cool thing to do.
