New Year’s Day

Pain is clear, it’s white, it’s sleep
inactive slow
it’s quiet like snow,
that’s what he wants.
Pain is clean, it’s water, glass
washing, scrubbing
shiny unmarked
that’s what he wants.
Pain is sharp, it’s stripped
frozen ice, raw like wind,
bitter and cutting –
he cuts because he thinks: I’m weak.
Because I’m weak, I can’t stop cutting.
If only Frank could gather all the stuff
he hates about himself into one hand
he’d cut it off.

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