Yes I'm addicted, not to marijuana, ecstasy or cocaine,
Yes I'm addicted, addicted to pain.
I drape scarves, I wear full sleeves,
To hide my face, my arms where the cuts seep.
My bag always contains a blade
Crimson, red, blood swathed.
My accessories are all in shades of red,
My wrists in red bracelets, my fingers in rings red.
My tattoos are real, they bleed,
My little harmless cuts cater to my every emotional need.
I want no pity, no sympathy, no advice,
My life, my body is my business, only mine.
My cuts, my only friends
Just the way I need them, slow to make amends.
Water touches my body and turns to bloody rain
My only pleasure is my soothing pain.
I deserve it, I depend on it, I crave it,
I don't care if my life flows out bit by bit.
Countless time has flown by,
Countless cuts have healed, some still cry.
I am not stopped by my best friend,
Because she is pain and will be the best one till the end.
Even now the blood trickles down,
Staining beautifully my sheets and nightgown.
All the happiness in the world is an illusion,
Only pleasure, pleasure from pain is a real solution.
I wanna die, die for sure,
But my death should be brave, more pain will I endure.
I hope for no saviors, no survival, just peace,
Though I wait for an angel, the Angel of Death to free me.
Call me selfish, self-centered or the devil's clone,
My pain is mine, mine alone.
I'm not helpless I have control
As I wake up each day I set a daring yet pleasurable goal.
I can't wait for a slow, natural death,
Just wish that nobody gets to know when I'm dead...
Isabella Francis's Other Poems
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(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
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