It seems that the more I draw,
the more I sketch the sensations
that arise from riding this emotional rollercoaster,
the more I realise that hands and faces
cannot heal me anymore than my attempts
to disfigure those same hands and faces.
Self-destruction presents itself in these scribbles,
and also in starvation, compensation, self-deprecation.
It is not a simple case of eat, or smile, or stop –
these have never been felt centrally at my core.
These are not things that can be enacted,
but rather must be relearned,
as new skills, new additions
to the toolkit beside my first aid kit.
Sketches are plasters that cannot heal my wounds,
but only cover them, protect them,
and just momentarily.
Until the next time I pick up a pencil,
or a blade, or step onto the scales,
and fall into the abyss sideways of the rollercoaster.
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