for all those who've complained about the lack of postage, here- have a morbid poem.

so very pale like a meringue,
smoother, softer than brie cheese
coloured veins flowing below
my translucent, waxy skin

i'm reminded of a time when
innocent to my turmoil,
slippery wet with salty tears,
aching stab from deep within

gripping scissors tightly, i'd
gently pull across my wrist
slowly red spilling on white,
the real hurting to begin

such unavailing, useless hope
wanting blood to heal my heart
and that to externalise
would cut out all my pain

these oft forgotten memories
return now to my soft touch
twas not many years ago
but no single scar remains