"I cut myself", he said, "I cut myself",
Twitching as the words
Slipped off his lips,
Psychiatrist; middle-aged woman
Laser-sharp gaze soul-piercing; judgemental-
"Why do you do it?"
"Don't you know that you could
Get infected?"
"Does it not hurt when you do it?"
Psychiatric words neatly whetted
Whet neatly his neatly knitted fear.
Facedown, restless feet, itchy ears, Trembling voice-
"Ma, it hurts...", sniffles, "...very much"
"So much that I dread a bath, Or the wearing of clothes
For fear of pain reminiscent"
..."but Ma, this pain, my pain, is no pain at all
For it hurts only my flesh,
Unlike the ache within;
The faceless wound that bleeds
Nonstop; my injured soul"
"Madam, without ice, a fractured
Bone will swell until it is further
Fractured"
"Ma, the razor is my ice"
Room; dead quiet, save
Air-conditioner that hummed
A song melancholic.
Patient facedown, awaiting further
Judgement, itchy eyes, itchy ears,
Itchy palms, nose itchy.
Impatient, cramping thighs force
Rebellious shriek,
"Madam what are these
On your arms...are they
Not scars...?"
"You cut too...don't you?"
Reluctant shrug, head lowered
Like a dozing labourer-
Chaotic silence,
Time up;
Two patients in need of a psychiatrist.
