Cutter

I'm using words
like the sharp tip
of a diaper pin.
A middle-aged woman's
weapon of choice,
not as sexy as a razor blade,
or a lancet.
I speak to him
in careful words,
six pages
whittled down to three.

The sharp piercing point
indents the flesh on the inside of my arm,
drags downward
leaving a red line
that rises
tactile and rounded.
I feel the itching sting.

I'm falling into
ritual,
waiting until midnight turns.
If I push deeper the lines are less smooth
jagged with tiny beads of welling blood,
gemstones I associate with him,
rubies
and pearls.

I cut free
most of what I would say to him
and leave one request,
pushing the pin strait into the flesh
down deep, between the bones.
There is no wisdom in what I am doing,
but it is feeling something,
navigating the pain.

I stare at my own honesty,
like a visual illusion.
I feel raw,
and release some of the sorrow
of holding things in.

Compassion towards him,
takes us no closer at all
to him having any ability
to understand
the devastation
he causes me
by simply being who he is.