I cut myself free

I cut myself
Not physically
But the way patriarchy cuts men
The way slavery cuts the dictator
The way thoughts cut a writer

I cut myself
Not once but twice
And then cry in my own bleeding hands

I cut myself so precariously
that even the blood turns into words on a paper
I cut myself just to prove that they can’t hurt me the way I hurt myself
But in the end I look at my bleeding hands and still blame the knife

I cut myself and find the monster bleeding
The monster everyone believes to be under the bed
Is inside my head
It is within me
I am my monster

I cut myself free,
Was it to escape the pull of the shore,
Or was the ocean calling me in,
Wrapping me tight in her cold embrace?

I wonder,
if the scars I left on myself
were deep enough to numb the pain,
or if each mark holds a memory
that time cannot erase.

Why does it still hurt?