it was a selfish, vain request.
Strayed from God, strayed from hope,
a welcomed ride down that slippery slope.
A shunned self-harmer I've become,
though took no blade to anyone.
Confused and guilty, unrepentant,
no convincing though incessant.
Dreams were never this revealing,
cuts so deep yet with no feeling.
The sweetest smell adorns the room
as I dress my deep, symmetric wounds.
Why me, this messenger of doubt?
Borne from parents so devout.
We parted ways, this party-bride,
no longer needs a parental guide.
I'll still be around, they'll find dove feathers
crying out for our 'togethers'.
So lift a stone, I shall be there,
I'm the breeze you feel in the evening air.
Who'll sit with me on the ragged rock,
as I bathe the blood that values shock?
Sweet St.Francis promise me,
that no more holes will ever be...
Driven hard into my wrists,
by this I know that God exists.
Crucified, stigmatic hands
is not what body weight commands
No prayer, no sunshine, fountain wishes,
makes them accept 'whatever this is'.
St.Francis, hold my hand at night,
once the night nurse switches off the light.
