Ugly Scars“Why do you cut, dear?”“Doesn’t it hurt?”Of course it does –It hurts more than I’m worth“Why do you cut, dear?”“Aren’t you ashamed?”Of course I’m embarrassed,But I’m used to the blame.“Why do you cut, dear?”“Why don’t you stop?”Can you stop a dead bodyFrom starting to rot?Because, darling, you see,I’m not even here.I’m only a corpseWith no hope, and no fear.“Why do you cut dear?”Well, don’t you see?There’s a pain insideSo deep within meAnd it’s coming to the surfaceBut no one understandsSo I put that painInside my hands.And I lay it outFor all to seeOn wrists so redAnd forearms that bleed.“Why do you cut, dear?”“It’s ugly, you know.”Ha.“ugly” is exactlyWhat this is meantTo show.
bullets in a shot glassAgain the archers are aching,again their bones are breakinglike the cracks in the Colosseum.Death does not defendeager-eyedfighters; he does not fulfillgodly goals ofheaven and halos.I am inverted, introverted,a jester jeeringat kids who kisslike life is long enough to fall in love.my mouth is a machine,a new nightfallordering our soldiers outinto pits where they pray for peace.the quirks of ourridiculous readings rule us,sand us into sculpturesthin and tall, trembling.our universe is built on uncertaintyand vicious virtueswritten by long-dead warriors whoexpected to live forever, andI do not yield to yourwell-read zombies.
The Wrong Side Of MidNightOn The Doctor's TrainI Met The Princess Of The Dawn,But We WereOn The Wrong Side Of MidNight.
new perspective.i.the dress hangs in the back of my closet,ashamed, limp and danglinglike a hanged lady at the gallows.it is a faded reminderof years ago,of the body I worein times gone.ii.I run my fingers over the pale fabric,trying to recall that dark peach pitrolling in my stomach,that intrusive disgust,that unclear thought running throughmy mind that night.I was younger, then,softer,when I decidedI'd never be wortha frame on the wall.I peeled myself apartin front of the mirror,shed the dress like snakeskin,left it like abandoning a childand sent myself toshiver against the wall.iii.while they all laughedat their faraway party,I trembled over the lyricsof the deafening silencein my middle school bedroom,trying to ignorethat sad pink pile of my imagelaying fat and loose in the corner.iv.today I slipped on the dress again,stepping my toes into its frigid watersbefore letting it tumble down over me.I stood at the mirrorand decided that the dress was lovely,and
Self-Harm Isn't a HandbagPick at the scabs of the ghosts of scarsOn the insides of my wrists,White hot pain memories shoot up my veinsAnd the tear vapour creates mistsIn the lenses of my glasses.My world narrows down to thoseWhite stitch marks that keep thePatchwork of my forearms and thighsTogether,Keeping the dark ugly hurtOn the insidesForever.How could I have done this to myself?Could I blame you?And him?And her too?No.I’m a big girl now,And the blame rests on my wrists,That flicked the bladeAnd sprayed the blood,And the mind that forbadeMe to ask for help.I’ve said it beforeAnd I’ll say it again;It isn’t beautifulTo put yourself through such pain.When your head is buzzingFrom the hit of the highOf a new cut on your thigh,Or your mind is lost in a mistOf ecstasy from a new sliceOn your wristAnd you’re dependent on itA junkie needing a hit,It isn’t pretty or cute or special.No amount of kissesWill undo the cutsOr absorb the scars.No
Anxiety attackAs the attack begins,I feel myself slipping away again.And I question things that are better left unsaid.And contemplate if I am better off dead.My anxiety is killing me,I feel my hands shaking.And I am sobbing.And am I dying?I am just trying,To get a grip.But I feel my reality slip through my finger tips.Nothing is real,Except every bit of pain my mind forces me to feel.Every memory that I had shoved away.Is now racing around my brain.It's driving me insane.And my limbs turn to jello.Every time my head hits the pillow,Before I go to bed.I start to panic and I am wide awake instead.More thoughts are swarming around like a hurricane.Please,Make it stop!And just like that,The attack is gone.
My Shooting StarsMy words are like little starsSitting on a gloomy velvetBlinding the eyes of manOnly when black rules our mind.