Bloodmarks

By Sam Marston

The knife splits the skin in two,
Blood trickles down to my feet.
The burning crispness of “self mutilation”
Washes away the sorrows I meet.

The family who’s temperament
Changes as the blowing wind
Says that I’m not good enough,
I’m a fool, I’ll never win.

The colleagues who are jackals,
Forever heartless, cold, and cruel.
They feed each other bits of flesh,
And churn them into hateful gruel.

The love I felt that never was,
Brings my heart into this pain.
A heart was given, but not wanted,
Renewal flows from the open vein.

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