I don’t care
who you are
Or if you think
You will not get
the best of me
For I’ll never
give up this fight
I know you
my way of
Stitch my wounds, if you like
I want to feel the pain
Don't call me a silly girl
For I'll only do it again
Ask me why, if you like
But you will never understand
The need, the comfort, the urgency
Those scissors close at hand
Leave me here, if you like
Go and walk away if you dare
Just remember I never asked for your help
Or your tender loving care
Forget I exist, if you like
It will not bother me one bit
For I'll always have my trusty blade
And carry my own first aid kit
Half laughing at some shit joke,
badly told by some prick you can't stand,
one eye trained on the nearest exit,
too anxious to stay but too scared to run.
She remembers she is hungry. She shoves a hand inside the leg of her boot.
She finds herself in Blythswood Square. The shadowy figure approaches her, but she is not afraid. It’s the fourth one tonight.
‘Twenty quid with’ she replies, ‘Twenty five without’.
She leads him down the darkened alley. Still, she is not afraid. He won’t last. They never do.
She reaches for the tissues from her pocket and wipes between her legs. She drops them to the ground as she slides the twenty pound note down into her boot. She puts the fiver inside her bra.
She strides down to Queen Street Station and pays the fifty pence to use the loo. It feels good to wash the stains from her body.
She ambles back up towards Sauchiehall Street to her favourite take away. She eats two slices of pizza with extra jalapenos, hoping to burn the taste of the men from her throat.
She stands outside, smokes a cigarette, and wonders what to do. She trudges back towards Blythswood Square.
Just two more, she thinks. Two more and I can go home.