Cicatrix

      Illustrated by zarin

   

Cicatrix (Self Harm)   (Colours my scar turned into)

 

Polluted skin; ivory.

held hostage by my mind, kept in a cage by a man before the blues I was stomped upon the ivory of my skin, now that I remember, my ashy ivory skin, undecorated and unornamented as homely veins of blood surge from head to toe, uncontaminated.

The crimson that runs from one’s veins, out of their skin— if pricked just the right way— the ivory pours rust red. 

 External haemorrhage; red.

the sirens in my mind were feeding on me, now there’s deeply settled blades sitting on the countertop, self-inflicted or coerced from skin, using all the right tools to make it look like an accident. My skin tastes blood, and my flesh is on fire, I might be leaving the ashes on the counter.

 Tarnished veins; purple.

last week’s veins running rampant from blades fuelled by intoxication, flowing through the insides staining ivory from all fields, dialled down the pain of being in a cage, the person I see in the mirror never missing a chance of feeling purple, as purple is royalty and so are ornaments, so now can I say my bronzed skin is ornamented and crowned royalty?

 hues and shades of green in blooming and growth, 

as rusted red lines close up.

purple transmutes into ivory. 

and veins turn deep pink again

leaving beautiful strokes of art called “scars”

The canvas portraying “self-harm.”

 

Cicatrix (Self Harm)
  (Colours my scar turned into)