Their Little Sin

Another
Another
Wrapped in little rhymes

Another
Another
Snapshot of these times

She's a cutter
A slicer
A self-mutilator

She's a hurter
A hater
An ivory skin raper

These wounds are not
For people like you,
She's a number, a statistic,
A report on the news.
'Cause everyone's doing it
And no one knows why,
The little girls like her
No longer cry.

Now it's razors
And scissors
To trace out red lines

Fingernails
And pencils
To spell out the signs

Hidden by shirtsleeves
And pant legs
Because it's just for them

These statistics
These children
With their little sin

She cuts because nothing else works,
And words aren't enough.
It's weak to get help
And she needs to be tough.
And the pain snaps her back,
Brings bended knee to the ground,
And she's better, for a while,
Without making a sound.

So she can't stop
She won't stop
And none of them will

While pain
And the bleeding
Are the only things real

Another
Another
One of those kids

So scared and
So frightened
Of what she is

Their Little Sin
6.29.03