Self Loathing, Self Donour

See these scars?  Badges of war they are.

I wear them with pride, for they show

The world I’m a survivour.  Bloodletting,

An old way of purging the unsavoury

Illnesses within one’s soul.  I remember

The times when the blade made

Sweet love to my flesh.  Yet, now, I find,

Much to my surprise, the need to cut

Is less and less.  Oh, don’t get me wrong,

I still crave the urge to hear metal

Slicing through flesh.  The sweet taste

Of red life that flows to the top, never enough

To quench this thirst. 

(c) 2003 A Riddle