Maybe I don't want to get well.
Maybe when I have a good day, I miss the pain.
Maybe I like being sad.
Maybe I want to have a reason to relapse.
I don't want to stop painting my skin
with red permanent ink.
I want to lock my bad thoughts in
so I am not losing them.
Maybe one day I am ready to heal,
but clearly not yet.
I feel safe in my pain.
It's something I know,
something I understand.
The pain feels like control,
like something that won't leave me alone.
I am not good at healing.
Well, how could I be,
if I fear being okay?
If I adore my scars,
WHO am I without all my depressed parts?
1h ago
Jun 4, 2026 at 7:19 AM UTC
My room is a mess.
As well is my head.
My room isn't clean.
Most people would be shocked by it.
My pretty white sheets stained in red,
the red of the blood
that left marks on my arms.
Red on white, what a beauty to see.
A mirror of my arms,
my thighs,
my ankles,
and the way I handle wanting to die.
My room is a mess.
My life is as well.
It gets me overwhelmed,
too much for me,
and I can't organize it.
My room is the way my head gets expressed.
My room isn't clean,
and I am not.
My mother says I should clean up.
But how,
when leaving my bed
already feels like too much?
Kinda like it that way.
I am used to it.
I feel safe in the chaos I create.
The mess in my room Matches my Head
2d ago
Jun 2, 2026 at 6:55 AM UTC
Panik
**** what's wrong?
I can't breathe.
Why is everyone looking like that?
I am on a stage,
following the script.
I've known for weeks.
Why can't I see clearly?
Why do I feel like I might cry?
I am on stage, I have to play my part.
But why is the light suddenly so bright?
I can't breathe.
The panic rises.
**** I might black out.
No, I can't now.
I have to do my part.
Don't let the others down.
I am gonna make a fool of myself.
Are they laughing at me?
**** I look ridiculous.
Why do i hear my own hearth beat?
Why did I agree to this?
I just wanna leave.
I said my phrase wrong.
Are they laughing at me?
I feel like trowing up
Please, I can't.
Get me out of here.
2d ago
Jun 1, 2026 at 3:24 PM UTC
I hold the blade in my hand
Like others their lucky charm
Tight and safe
Not to cut, but to relax
My brain doesn’t do what it should be
Thinking about harming myself
For me, this thought is like rest
Just a piece of metal
Nothing more
A few lines
Red and ******
Beautiful in a way death would like it
Not for the eyes of those who can’t relate
But for me, every scar is a piece of art
A picture of all the demons inside me
The space I give them
My parents call them ugly
They don’t seem to get what I see
They don’t see it’s the way my darkness
Gets expressed through this
I want more
I want to relapse
I kinda hate when they fade
I am proud of them
But still, I don’t want anyone to see
But cutting is what makes me feel like I am real
My drug, my nightmare
I’m addicted to the way my blood stains
I keep the tissues in a box
Like little treasures I adore
6d ago
May 28, 2026 at 3:23 PM UTC
I live for a life I don’t really like.
There is nothing in particular bad about it,
but I am.
I am not worthy of living.
I can’t see the beauty in it,
The colors are gray, my heart is empty.
I am willing to be.I am willing to work,
to play my part.
But deep down, I don’t feel the passion for lifeeveryone is talking about.
For me Everything just feels numb
I don’t want to die —at least I think so.
But living doesn’t seem right for me.
I don’t care about my existence.
I don’t care if I’ll be part of the next day.
I’m not planning on living past 20 anyway.
Everyone says I should look out for my future,
but grown-ups seem more interestedin what will happen to me
I could ever be.
I don’t see the importance of a long life.
Why live if I don’t feel like it?
When I’m mentally in pain every day.
Why work hard for a futureI’ll never be part of?
Why care for a body
i cut open at night?
Why take interest in what people sayif none of them will visit my grave?
7d ago
May 27, 2026 at 4:04 PM UTC
I promised myself this year would be different.
This summer I wouldn’t hide.
I won’t be ashamed of my scars anymore.
Guess what? Now it’s Worm , and I wear long sleeves, long skirts. I cover my scars along with all my pain, so my mother can’t see.
I am not what she wants me to be.
I am broken. I cut my own beauty away — just a picture of horror and shame, something that just shouldn’t be there.
I open up too much and too little.
I haven’t found the right way yet.
Either way, I can’t stand how you look at me when my arms are visible, like I am ugly, not how I used to be.
I am not the little girl you want to see.
I don’t even have something against my scars. They are there, so what?
But your words cut deep — deeper than any blade ever has. They leave a scar not visible on skin, but in my heart.
May 27
May 27, 2026 at 1:51 AM UTC
A little girl ran over to her mom crying because the boy didn’t like her favorite dress.
And I thought to myself, when did we get used to it?
To all the unasked criticism we never wanted to hear.
Since when is it normal for us to put a price tag on ourselves?
The worth depending on what some boy next seat says.
So I looked in the mirror, picking my skin, wondering why don’t I look like the blonde girl the boys called hot today.
I looked in the mirror, not seeing the beauty I was once used to admiring on myself.
Missing the girl who spins around in her little pink dress, not caring if she fits in all the drawers society made.
Today every girl my age looks the same.
All is kind of beige with a hint of gray.
So please don’t ask me if I like myself because yes, I do, but I would more if I could just be myself and no one would care.
If it would be normal to dress in every style, not just what we call clean girl basic type.
But if I do, I have to fear, what if they don’t like my alternative side?
So I’ll just do my thing, hoping to motivate others to follow their own way,
and hope that one day “normal” has no clear definition,
so we don’t have to manipulate ourselves just to fit in.
May 26
May 26, 2026 at 7:10 PM UTC
You ask me how I feel
without wanting me to answer honestly.
I answer, “I am fine,”
knowing my scars just ripped open.
You say you will listen,
you say you’ll be there,
but I am alone, crying my eyes out at night,
shutting my mouth so I don’t make a sound.
You say it will be okay,
but you can’t even handle me being in pain.
Your eyes tear up when you see my scars.
“Didn’t you think about how I would feel with you doing that?”
I cover my arms, I play the part,
the happy girl,
like I don’t want to die.
I become the person you want to see
so you feel great
and I don’t feel like I failed.
Day by day, I wear this mask.
I already lost myself.
I don’t know who I am anymore,
just a hollow, broken girl
feeling like she has to carry the whole world
but still being worthless,
not important enough for you to stay.
I am tired of being the way you want me to be
if you don’t even try to be the dad I need.
May 26
May 26, 2026 at 4:24 AM UTC
You drew stars around my scars
a sentence I wish I could tell someone
a sentence I wish someone would make true.
How I wish to look at my arms without disgust,
how I wish you would cover my pain
with something beautiful to look at,
taking the focus away from the horror I try to hide,
so I can look at myself in the mirror again
without having to see what I have done.
I wish for that sad but peaceful feeling
that comes up when the pen starts tracing my scars,
turning the red and white lines into flower fields
that seem to heal a part of me.
I wish for someone that doesn’t look at me
like I might fall apart,
even if it’s the reality.
I want them to notice and to care,
but still treat me the same.
Not something that needs to be repaired,
someone to take notice
without making a scene,
without making me look like a broken piece
May 25
May 25, 2026 at 4:25 PM UTC