Archive | July 2016


Cut the pain away. Cut the fucking pain away. The scissor blades are cold. Icey edges. My foot slips slightly on the toilet seat as I shift my shoulders for a better view of myself. All of me. As I move, the scissors sting me. I wince.

The mirror reveals my shameful shapes. My awkward, ugly pose. Filthy, dirty angles. Neck twisted, arm reversed and tucked under my right leg which is lifted up and propping itself on the toilet. My stuff hanging scared and insignificant. Scissors pinched. Cold and sharp. Fucking sharp.
The scissors sting again. I have never seen myself from this angle before. The muscles in my back move differently to how it feels from the front. I look like someone else. I feel like someone else. Please be someone else. Anyone else. The scissors, they burn me. Cut the pain away. Mutate me. 

Wiping my arse has been an event over the past few weeks. This huge fucking haemorrhoid. It moved in, occupied me and decided to continue bursting and healing. Burst and heal. Fucking burst and never heal. Only scabs. Well, this is it. The showdown. 

I’m stood strange in my bathroom. Leg up and pile pinched between steel. Skin shining hot-wet. A singular bead of sweat slides fast down my spine before slipping into my arse crack. 

I’m mouth-breathing now. A minute goes by and I do absolutely nothing. Then, I press hard down onto the scissors and squeeze them together. I feel the pinch. I feel the burn, the sting, the tear. The release. My butthole puckers like a kiss. Then it spits blood. The pile hits the floor all bloody and purple. And then everything is wet with red. 

Scissors meet floor. Floor meet blood, scissors and I’m sure you’ve all met pile. I shuffle and rip streams of toilet paper from the wall before stuffing it between my ass cheeks. The tissue turns red and dark. I wash myself down, hike up my underwear and jeans before taking a final look in the mirror.

The mirror reveals my shameful shapes. My awkward, ugly pose. Filthy, dirty angles. Trimmed and unwhole. And yet the pain remains. Somewhere in me. Deep. I pick up the scissors once again and survey myself. The steel traces my skin as I stand weird and unnecessary. Cut the pain away. Mutate me. Please.