Safety Pins Are Not Safe

safety pins

Bloody scary sores. Bloody wounds everywhere. Gaping holes in our flesh. Torn skin, ripped skin, ravaged flesh.  And a safety pin.  A fucking safety pin on the bathroom counter.  This was yesterday’s afternoon/evening.  This is K’s reality.  Can’t really remember doing the deed….just see the bloody mess left behind.  Hell, we’re not even sure how long we were in the bathroom doing all this damage. Time was lost. A lot of it.  Our body is covered in imperfections now, covered in horrific sores.  We are bloody, scabby, oozy, red and angry all over our arms and legs, both upper and lower.  The holes appear to be spreading…  holes here, holes there.  Even holes on our ribcage and on our hips. Holes from safety pins.  She pierced the flesh of our palms with pins and made holes up and down the sides of our fingers.  We are holey.  We are damaged.  We are disgusting.

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