When I was eight.
I held a silver blade over my pale wrist.
But it told me to stop,
And so I slipped it away.
When I was fourteen.
I brought out that same blade,
Along with two others.
Silver, black, blue.
They told me to forget.
I hid them in the drawer of my wooden desk.
When I was eighteen.
Ready to end everything,
I brought out all five of them.
Silver, black, blue, white, green.
For all my deadly sins,
I deserved them.
Tears welled but were never shed.
They told me to rise up,
To continue to make memories.
Still I have the urge
To take the knife up
And do stupid things
Like I used to before
But no, I don't do it
Instead I drown myself
In loud music and tears
With literally no end
Am I becoming mad?
I don't know anymore
But this seems like
A fine way to suffer
I'm an artist they say...
I painted my illusions of dreams
I drew on a smile everyday,
I was happy, so it seemed
But my palette ran low
As my colors faded grey
Now my life holds on by a thread
And I'm just fighting just to stay
Because as the days go on,
I let these colors bleed through.
From my paper to my skin,
I'm nothing but red, black, and blue.
I turned myself into a canvas
Trying to describe this strife
But it wasn't beautiful at all
For my paintbrush was a knife
And my paintings are nothing but
empty promises of what we once knew
The only color left in my life
Are my memories of you
The word feels foreign on my tongue
Actions make me run and hide
As if no one could ever love someone
As hideous and dirty as me
That's what you want me to believe
That no one will ever love me for the way I am.
So you sit there and whisper in my ear
It's okay, he can touch you like that, this isn't wrong
But it is
He should treat me better.
For a while,
I told myself that I would figure you out
I would understand why you are the way that you are
I would fix you
But it was never that simple
Sometimes, people hurt people just to hurt them
As if they find pleasure in it
You loved to watch me squirm under your knife.
I always thought you loved me
But now the fog has cleared
And I see that it was lust.
I have all my fingers,
The knife goes chop, chop, chop.
There's nothing poetic about the life I lead,
With feet like lead I tread and
Tread through halls of dread.
If I hit my fingers
My fingers will come off.
I trod and trod and trod,
Life is monotony and
The grind is sodomy.
If I hit my fingers
The blood will soon come out.
The world keeps whipping,
There is no relief and
Man is the thief.
But all the same we play this game,
That's what it's all about.
The priest keeps preaching,
The room spins, spins, spins and
I writhe in ecstasy with my sins.
You may not use a pen,
The only is with a knife when
Danger is your friend.
what am i doing
i stab her deep
then i lick the knife clean
why did i do that
go out front
put it out in soil of dead potted plant
i look around the neighborhood for more people walking
relieve myself in dead plant
see blood trail
leading out back
i follow it
she's trying to hop the fence
but her body is failing her
i grab her ponytail
and whiplash her to the ground
she gurgles n gargles
one of her collarbones is sticking out
i break it off
and beat her over the head with it
until a red white and purple slushee comes out
i can't help myself
i've lost it
i've lost my marbles
Sits there sending me descriptions of my mutilation,
Says he'll be viciously eviscerating on the road or on the pavement.
The only thing he'll be touching is a victim impact statement,
When he's crying to the police after I brutally rape him.
Have men down on their knees begging for my sympathy,
Reminders of my mortality coming in swiftly,
I see hostility and reciprocate it instantly,
Your personality had more of a fucking chance of cutting into me.
Better go grab your kite,
Because I know you caught wind of me.
The only thing as stable as your gang of wiggers is my volatility.
But it might be nice to get some peace and tranquility when I've stripped you of all that misplaced pride and nobility.
Step one starts with forgetting/
you begin by tearing
yourself from the skin they took home in,
disconnecting your arms from their seams,
eating their hearts
and hoping that they forget you,
Step two means burning all
dissolving each memory like the pills
your mother took at breakfast,
how could you have let this happen?
so you pull
veins from yours and
untangle what they gave you,
choke down a penny
that they don't think of
Step three is the
cut yourself open and scrub yourself
unchain your wrists from that dinner table
and hope that his nightlight doesn't bleed
orange was never a pretty color
Step four is the hardest,
when you take a knife to your palm,
and make slits down to your wrist,
when you ignore the beck and call
of memories you forgot you had,
people you realize never cared,
so you take
a drink for those you know you've
and come clean
to three different people, all the
same and hope the next girl
doesn't know step one....
it never seemed to hurt when you
played it all out in your head.