ways to self-harm as a black woman because your mama would kill you if you cut yourself

first, i tried pinching:
squeezed skin between fingertips
until it ashed like i scratched
my eczema until it spread.
i was prideful on how much pain
i could take as if that meant
no one could hurt me as
much as i hurt myself.
but when that wasn’t enough,
i tried biting
until i felt bone beneath my teeth
but never broke skin.
what’s a bite or a pinch
to a child that got whoopins?
who was smacked and slapped

one time one time—
my mom popped a blood vessel in my eye
so much so that i wished she was the one
who wanted to die.
i knew i needed to find new ways to bleed,
so i kept friends that failed
to stick up for me.
i stuck with mediocrity
because i doubted
anyone else could love me.

and when i did get free,
i got freaky:
fucked so much i felt nothing.
see pleasure can be pain.
i tried everything—
no fetish pushed me away.
i went on a million first dates,
begged to be loved,
through being a good fuck.
i thought partners could see
how i was wifey material
despite being ripped apart.

then tattered i got tatted.
think i prefered the pain painted
i cried after every session.

i never really recover.
i yearn to get back under the needle,
i’d even pierce my nipples,
but i am afraid to lose feeling
despite not wanting to feel anything.
don’t that be twisted?

how i hold myself to such a high standard.
any mistake i make leaves me crashing,
a paperweight,
smashing on the floor.
i am so good at getting awards,
but i never feel like a winner.
i once got recognition for being
open-minded. i accepted everyone
but myself. i once was rewarded
in every category at a ceremony,
and left with no one to celebrate with and
that hurt more than any cut to the skin.
but at least it wasn’t my body that was
decorated. i have no lines to tell my story,
but i love a good read.

sometimes i don’t hide how weird i be
just to feel the pain of people who
would make fun of me, so i
guess i got a humiliation kink.

theres a million ways to hurt:
i can tell you which one stays,
but there’s only a few to
save yourself from the pain.
i try something new everyday.
i know that even my suicide
needs to be socially acceptable

to a culture that villainizes
black girls—

but why should my death matter anyway
when the only person i hurt is myself.