In this season of years so sad
all that faces me in the mirror
is the isolation in the embrace of my own arms,
the scars that found themselves to my arms
the soft musical trickle of blood so sad
yet so vibrant an image contrasting the pale silhouette in this mirror.
Is that what life is like when you're twenty?
When laughter's memory is the furthest I can't reach?
When the most solid realities are the ephemeral dreams in sleep?
And every day's sanctuary is the sedation of sleep?
When one stroke of release on the wrist has turned to twenty?
From the grave of a poetry lined coffin, red fingernails reach-
-to a platinum star exalted above.
Where razors couldn't find themselves to surfaces,
Where red toe nails could prance freely in a dance,
Where joy and black could form one dance,
And crystal tears seep from above
To fill every cicatriced surface-
-of this naked twenty year old body.
I see with blood torn eyes
red fingernails scratching at the door,
the red flesh of this door
penetrating with clearer eyes
this soft little cicatriced body.
- Joy Lise (2002)


