The First Cut's Poem by James McLain

Pearl handled my friend
used to belong to grand papa.
Dead he has been for a while.
Criss crossed my inner thighs
resemble, any way a big mess of flesh.
Crimson scars rum crisscrossed,
purple welts hidden by my wrist bands.
Matted mess of hair where I rarely bother.
Straight razors are the best if kept sharp.
When ask I surrender those straight
edged razor blades I buy for them.
I have started to practice in the mirror
I quiet naked.
Around my neck the metal circles held at finger tip.
If they ever saw me I would loose that part of me
they remember that my name is open Rose.