October 26, 2011
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I am a Werewolf
The sun is setting on our eyelids, so listen to the cadence above my ribcage
something wicked lies here. dormant.
beating the shit out of my insides just to remind me that it’s there.
I am a werewolf.
I walk into the daylight with scratches that came from the darkness of my pores
but I swear, I never wanted to die.
I was 14 years old, barely breasted this thin wrist kiss to kitchen knife on my yellow bedspread with white flowers, no red flowers, no blood,
because it was just a kitchen knife
and I was just seeing how thick the stubborn skin was.
the second was a lady’s razor
the third was an exacto-knife
the fourth was a box cutter, which to this day I still have- it is rusted.
Like ofelia I am attracted to water,
blue handle, red blade,
I have thrown it away twice.
Sent its demons to slice its shadows
waiting until I missed it –the rip- I missed it.
Most people see box cutters and think airplanes, think failed security, think rectangles and pentagons.
Me? I just see red lines like lipstick.
more addictive than cocaine; This is dependence.
Stripped of pipes and filters I am captivated by straight strokes and sharp edges.
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.
This is like breathing in pine pitch.
It’s like the shower water is gasoline and you’re playing with matches.
It’s like looking through a stack of needles for a piece of daylight.
It’s like saying it’s a rusty nail, saying it’s barbed wire, saying it’s a cat scratch-
it’s telling your mother it was an accident.
It’s not doing the one thing you want to when you know it only hurts yourself, so why the hell not?
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.
A 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.”
Comments (2)
I can’t stop crying, Kris. This is… the scream of my soul, vocalized by another.
My friend J., he lives in Ringtown, he’s a female to male transsexual and he used to cut himself.
He also used to run a tribute site to Judy Gold, it was called http://www.jewdygold.com but I don’t know if he has it up and running now. He also had various Xanga sites that are not up and running.
He has big feet. You know that I like him. I’ve never met him offline; I spoke to him on the telephone, twice.
His mother and his grandmother hate me. I’m his fake dad; I’ve sent him presents. Including a naughty one.
Anyway J. has done some of his own body modifications; he pierced his own tongue 3 times. He used to cut himself, he’d go through stages where he did this and I saved 2 pictures of his cuttings on my hard drive. It was disconcerting to me that he did this but the cuttings on his upper arm and on his thigh truly looked like hieroglyphics, or the American flag, or like the secret formula circle + square = blair. So I still have those pictures and they’re garish, but I’m glad that Joey isn’t bleeding anymore. I consider him a friend, and I want the lights to be on and I want there to be somebody home.
The naughty present that I sent him (he sneaked it out of the mailbox before his grandmother could find it) was not the reason for the self-mutilations, as I didn’t get the idea for that gift until much later. There had been a series of other gifts but the naughty one (it came in two parts actually) may have validated him as a transguy, even though he hasn’t really devirginized it yet, especially not on meeeeeeee (sigh).