Sierra DeMulder - Werewolf - CUPSI 2009
My father has been dry for fourteen years, and he tells me,
“An alcoholic is always an alcoholic,
and sober is just another word for thirsty.”
my hands are too thirsty to admit on paper
the last time I etched regret into my leg
because the blade is still in me, this sickness is still in me,
and everyday it calls to me to open up and let it breathe.
I have felt it dancing like the devil in the belt felt metal kissing tissue
howled temptation into my scars when the moon was blackened out
carved “I am better than this” on the inside of my thighs
and in the morning the scars just read “Weakness.”
My own fingers are abusive.
So shoot me with a silver bullet,
hold my hands away from their victim.
I do not have layers of eyeliner and teen angst.
I am not a little girl just looking to get looked at.
I do not walk down the street, or across it.
I just live there.
When all you want to do is break like bones,
and go into the drawer that
isn’t ever opened anymore.
I am not looking for pity.
I have baskets full.
I am not looking for attention,
there is a reason you don’t see any scars.
I think it’s sick that this remedy requires
something to be broken
veins enclosed with red fencing.
I do not believe the band-aids are healing.
They are just another layer.
This is just another way of feeling.