My flesh is like The Origin of Species
showing my evolution of self harm,
proving the existence of my sickness.
I had to adapt to survive
In this scrutinous world in which we reside
from my wrists, to my shoulders,
and finally my thighs, scars dance
like spider webs in the wind
upon my paper skin, scribbled on
with razor blades and safety pins.
Slip up my sleeve
To read stories of suicide
and mental stagnation.
My scars have evolved,
But my brain remains the same,
Of never ending pain.