Outré

Some people carve up their skin to feel something.
Me? I drown myself in whiskey–straight from the bottle.
Burn it down, scrape it raw.
That’s how it goes.

People slice each other open when they hurt.
I take the hit myself, keep the mess on the inside.
Better me than them.

Said I was too outré, like a foreign language
They didn’t care to learn.
Said I didn’t fit in their soft little world.

Like I’m supposed to care.
Take rejection on the chin–do not flinch, do not blink.
Stiff upper lip and all that shit. I was raised on it,
learned young to spit at the closed door–laugh it off.

But hell, that drive home, pulled over, wiped my eyes,
choked down the loss like smoke in a burning room.
Don’t tell me I got over it. Don’t tell me I found peace.
I still slice myself on whiskey, mean and unforgiving,
and drain the bottle till I feel nothing sharp enough to bleed.