I am her something.

Cool steel

pressed upon her

milky white skin.

Pressure applied

I make her arm cry

red droplets staining the white.

Yes,

her arm remembers 

the fifty scars that speak of

her self inflictions.

A few of them

for drowning at the bottom

of the empty liquer bottles.

Others for the white,

blanketing her in a

safe numb.

And two.

Two for the attempt.

She wants to feel something.

Anything.

I am her something.