Do The Damage

He says venomous things
that have a life
and a barbed stinger of their own.
They fly unerring,
pierce the skin,
and cannot be removed.
They poison,
and she is shot full of them easily,
a soft target,
large and rounded.
She has felt them stab her
so often he no longer has to aim —
he holds his specimens out,
and she selects
those she thinks will please him most,
and stabs herself with them at her leisure.
It is more efficient
to do the damage herself, she thinks.
It is the one thing,
the only thing,
she knows she can do better
than anyone else.

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About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
This entry was posted in Love Poems, On Depression, Poetry. Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to Do The Damage

  1. J. A. Panian says:

    Oh wowch. I quite viscerally feel the sting of this one.
    You have well-conveyed a thing that I know well.

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