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.
I remember how my life
watching you with those girls
I could only run or hide
you can't see how it hurts
that every time I end up
with my knife
under the tree house
we built when we're child
how far we've come
separated but we got along
one last thing I only want
bury me in all the colors
and all the flowers
which are faded and dark
with a rainbow out of blue
faded in darkness of the night
ready to jump
ready to fly
*with no hope, no fear
You barged into my life like you've been there all along
You didn't even bother to take your shoes off
You loved me when it was cold, but then summer came and you melted away like the million pointed stars of snow--
leaving me squinting against the sudden light and wondering how the hell I managed to live in the dark for so long
But then, this is how it's always been
I longed for everything when I could have settled for something
You gave me flowers and I brought you spring
And I say:
You're a knife I pointed at my own throat
You're a dream I'd never fully wake from
And now that I can't live without the roses,
I'd have to settle for the thorns.
They didn't give me a decision,
I get no say, no control,
I'm just their tool,
Their tool for incision.
They know my qualities, my strength,
My body's like steel,
With an edge that could kill,
Don't approach me at arm's length
Or you will get hurt.
But I don't want to hurt you.
I hold too high a virtue
To wish for your place in the dirt.
Alas, I'm not a factor,
I'm just stuck in slavery.
And no matter my bravery,
I can't kill my captor.
But no one hears you
It's like everything you see
Has a kind of blur to it
Things used to be vibrant
Things used to be clear
You grew up
Felt life like a knife to the stomach
Every step you take is like walking on glass shards
People wont sweep away the glass
People wont offer a shoe
They just keep adding glass.
i’m so depressed
so inside of my own head
so inside of myself
just go away karen
she asks “don’t you feel good ever? just a sliver?
just a slice?”
yeah, i guess, when i fuck myself
that reminds me
i kind of enjoy pain too
as i grab the knife
I opened them up just slightly, then in haste I departed
there creases and all that was inside spilt upon the floor.
I learnt from my first mistake, this wasn't the first time I had
opened one up. But the realization over took my needing and
what was within expelled so much held within,
mistaking what was and now spilt on the surroundings.
The next time I emptied them gently in to the tub,
I was slightly strange but I preferred to cut two open then
miss them in essence, I was hungry for what they had to give
and once I had my fill I discarded then to the side lingering
in a mess of what once was and what was partly tasted
sodden in the essence I had partaken to envelope them both in.
A few days later I had a taste for something different,
so I delved my knife into it. So seductive to watch
it break upon the skin, I scraped upon it and I licked
the knife like it was a lolly pop weeping essence on
my tongue. Then I spread it on the other then I lacerated
cutting it with a blunt knife, lusting the feel on my palm.
Do you know how long it takes to cut deep with a blunt
instrument. Time, and I adored the pleasure of the misery that
I felt when I finally thrust through from front to aft. I put the
blade down, and that piece that had became singular was now
digested within myself and it was salty going down. I murder
cereal every morning the aroma when descending exquisite.
It was supposedly a birthday gift,
this long-legged razor's edge.
My brother must've seen me
watching it's live demonstrations.
Little did he know,
how skilled I thought myself to be.
The wrapping came off easily.
It was crudely shredded by a lesser blade
soon to be replaced.
Then the weapon itself glared at me
through the clear plastic window of its box.
Unsheathing it then, I felt its power come to me,
two steel legs spreading for a virgin murderer.
I probed it meticulously, the blade
caught the light and somehow swallowed it
before its appendage whirled across to conceal it.
This was a knife with thoughts.
Then I tried my first trick.
The blade danced elegantly,
and though I held on (for dear life)
it wanted to escape from my clutches.
I was caging it gracelessly between my fingers
and its first prerogative was to be free.
Still holding tight, it changed tactics,
a blood thirst radiating from within.
The next move would be my last.
For one split-second it escaped the probation of my palms,
somersaulting through the air above me.
It pointed downwards for a final coup de grâce.
I divorced myself from the weapon that day,
stitches adorned my bloodied hands
and the blade was taken as evidence,
though for what trial I never discovered.
My brother tossed it into the sea, I found,
legs still spiralling, blade still sharp.
"My mother quit smoking."
Oh, isn't it ironic that the tendrils still
Find their way in slamming doors and
Fists against walls, and the screaming,
And what do I say to that?
Blank stare, white walls, actually slightly cream,
Actually no, fuck you "mommy I'm sick" no, fuck you. Don't you know you can't throw
chemicals at my throat
Without the tinfoil packaging cutting
Into my bones!
"my mother quit smoking" actually no,
Fuck you, my mother quit being a fucking mother, but was she ever really?
"mommy it hurts, mommy please make it stop!"
No, fuck you.
You left blood in the folds of my eyelids with every beautifully lettered knife.
Fuck you, "mommy".