to him... because he seemed to enjoy it when i was inspired
as time passes.
like minutes and hours.
the shorter i cut my hair.
sometimes once every two weeks....
i'm making a habit out of cutting . snipping. gashing.
r u nn i ng
and it's so much easier than taking the pain out on my
it's so much easier to cut away at myself without the blood.
without the mess
because i realized.
that we're all just skin and cells and brainwaves
and... why not? i mean. isn't it sensible to take away a
part of ourselves inch my inch... in a numb way.
like CCCCCuuuuuuu ttttttting your h (heart)
off. it falls to the floor in pieces
and is easier to clean up after.
and rarely does it's absense cause trauma.
so i cut and cut and cut.
and i watch it dissapear like sinead o'connors...
blonde/brown/red pieces decorating my black smock and the
cool tiled floors.
and as i watch and itch a little...
i think to myself.
even though it's going going gone... it's still here.
so dyinganddeath must be like that ... it's cominggoing
or is it? ... is it?!
is it still here.
makes me think about him.
makes me think about reality.
and about formless voids that grow a little more every day.
makes me think about lies.
makes me wonder.
about where you draw the lines or place the periods between
going. and gone.
and if i should just die/dye my hair... instead of c
u t t