Author’s Note:
This poem contains frank depictions of self‑harm, trauma, and emotional distress. It approaches these subjects with unfiltered language and imagery that may be difficult for some readers. Please take care while reading. If you’re struggling with similar feelings, reaching out to someone you trust or a mental‑health professional can make a real difference.
I pulled up the chair like I’d bought front-row seats
to the world’s shittiest movie - no popcorn, just blood
and the same bad decisions on repeat.
He dug into that old wound like an archaeologist
who already knows it’s only more dirt:
dead mother, father pickling himself, the greatest hits.
A dog licking the same raw spot. Everyone pretending
the fur’s still there.
People call it weakness.
Sure - if strength means pretending the screaming
in your skull is just background noise.
I called it efficient once:
why drown in black milk when you can open a vein
and let it run red for a while?
Pain at least arrives on time
and leaves something you can show.
So I stayed.
Hand me a blade, barkeep.
Same as the last round, but sharper.
I cut in nice designs at first…
little cursive loops, almost pretty…
blood pooling warm on the tile
until the whole arm looked like modern art
done by someone who hated the canvas.
Then my own pain stopped screaming
long enough to look around
and whisper:
“Hey buddy, you’re turning this arm into a crime scene.”
Logic chimed in:
one more inch and you’re explaining this to an A&E nurse
who’s heard every excuse except “I was going for avant-garde.”
So I quit while I was… well, not ahead,
but at least not amputated.
Found a tattoo guy with shaky hands and zero curiosity.
Slapped some black tribal bullshit over the mess.
Now it looks like I lost a fight with a barcode scanner.
Classy.
He never stopped.
Kept mapping hurt onto skin like it was the only address left.
Years later he scrolls past on my feed - ghost who forgot to log out…
face tattooed into a billboard of bad decisions,
eyes deader than disco.
The kid I knew is gone under enough ink
to stock a stationery shop.
I hovered over “like” for ten seconds.
Almost typed: Nice ink, man.
Closed the app instead.
Took a drag off the vape.
Thought: at least he’s still honest about the bleeding.
I just got better at hiding the map.
- UpsilonA