Written In Blood Poem by Amy Fifita

This is flagellant-like behavior,
But also a silent cry,
I have put this as my labor,
So my body doesn’t die.
And still I don’t like my label,
And still I don’t know why.

Is this what I really deserve?
And yet pain is taken away,
When I scream I am not heard,
So on my arms I slay.
The broken skin is my voice,
Help, is what it says.

And with my deformation,
What does it indicate?
10%, the female teenage population,
And all themselves they hate.
I think I might need help,
I’ve left it far too late.

The blade is my refuge,
Because I’m running from myself,
As does the blood that I lose,
I want to be someone else.
I remember who I was,
When the blades were not my spouse.

I look at all my scars,
The ones that I can see,
Not the emotional ones that are,
And ask what have I done to me?
I reminisce my old self,
Of the person I’m meant to be.

With my sadness I try to plead,
From this I can’t rise above,
‘Cause I’m the one who has to bleed,
From my arms blood floods.
I think it obvious that I need help,
It doesn’t have to be written in my blood.