Trauma

I cut myself
and watched my flesh-
this temporary shell to which my spirit hides within-
break apart
to the intrusion of this life’s pain
and as the blood succumbs to the pressure of gravity
a pressure I know all to well,
it cascades down-
painting all in its path
I smeared it
as if molding clay pottery
my trail of tragedy,
cloaking the skin that once was its captivity
although free for now
before it too,
like all things surface,
is soon washed away and long forgotten
disappearing to distant memories
for it was only a temporary experience
a quick and baneful existence
because no pain lasts forever…
or so they say
and the scar-
a reminder of my suffering surface-
marks the vulnerability of shallowness
so why live there?
when what lies beneath heals what lives in plain sight
I wish my spirit free
better to be deep
when it’s the surface that always breaks first
but I guess its a matter of perception
because self inflicted cuts,
hurt less than the ones life has given me
or maybe its the control I have
versus the consistent lack of
I even feel myself more
than the obedient punishment I take otherwise
I just want what’s inside to be free
so everyone can see who I truly am
and each cut,
is but an attempt at peeling back one layer at a time
maybe you’ll see me then
maybe you won’t
just as,
I can’t control what you see in me because of life’s inflicted cuts,
I can’t control what you see in me because of my self inflicted ones either
I’m stuck
because even when I have control
I’m still powerless