Honestly

Nobody wants the truth.

Not really.

Just picture

the look on their faces if I declared,

bold as brass,

that I did this to myself.

Yes, honestly,

I made these incisions,

Up and down

My own tender arm,

It is a ladder,

of my truth.

Imagine, imagine,

The gasp in their mouths, stuck in their throats,

Should I confess

that only I

am responsible

for this criss-crossing map.

It leads to only my mind,

the one that is kept hidden beneath

each uttered 'I'm fine',

my mind that is shattered,

raging against this 'condition'.

What a polite word,

'condition',

for all the nights of terror

and each morning

I slide the edge against my skin,

just to let these bad humours out.

Honestly, the truth

is a dagger, a shaft,

it will pierce deeper

than you want it to,

it will reveal warm, black blood.

I promise,

You don’t want it, my loves.