Physical relics of pain

I don’t like handshakes,
Unlike yours, my hands have a range of blisters,
The rough contours of my fingerprints
And halfway roach-bitten nails,
You call them ugly,
I call them remnants of a battle with anxiety,
Yes, this is a product of hard work
and I mean not mjengo or a farmhand,
I’ve done a good job at mutilating my body,
Cut myself as a boy
Now I’m a man but I still bleed myself just to redirect my thoughts,
Better physical pain than mental torture.
I’ve peeled off the skin of my palms
just to ascertain if my body could pass as human sacrifice,
I’ve drank my blood, sips warm and sweet,
Only then did my cup of suffering taste like fine wine,
I’ve pulled off the hair of my head
just to scream and hear myself cry for help,
I’ve seen her with whipmarks and not stretchmarks
Don’t pity her flawless skin is past tense,
She loves her scales anyway.
I’ve licked my tears and smacked my salty lips
just to quench the flaming bitterness within,
I’ve kissed a whole lot
just to suck out their pain
You could say that I’m a drain.
There’s a war in my head, and I’m losing
The voices are talking to me
Eloi! Eloi! Lamasabacthani
I write to exorcise them.

~Misfit poet~