I’ll flush the blood
Down the drain
So the only known
Will be in my brain
It doesn’t hurt
To run my fingers
Down the lines
Of red like wines
I love the pain
But I know that
The know of it
Will make me splat

My fingers grab at it
             So tightly i think that they
                     Might break off into
         Tiny little pieces and
              Scatter everywhere
                     Littering the floor with
            Sharp metal shards

It hurts…

It hurts to look in the mirror
And see the thin white strands cross my leg

It hurts to see my ribs in the mirror
When I look at myself

It hurts to look at my face
To see tears falling and the bags below my eyes

It hurts to see the blade
When i close my eyes

It hurts to think about the blade
To feel the urge to find it

It hurts
It hurts
it hurts

But it hurts way more to stop
But it hurts way more to be clean
But it hurts way more to see the scale tick up’

something hurts
and it hurts way more

Black and blue marks
On my arm—
Ink, of course. What else?
Words, thoughts, feelings, fears
Written, smudged, then erased.
Leftover streaks,
They wash away
With a smidge of soap and water.
And yet…
I can’t help but remember
When I wrote
With mechanical pencils
And staple bullets
Instead of ballpoint pens
And gel ones.
When I watched the ink,
A gorgeous shade of rubies,
Trickle
Down to my wrist
Like a rivulet of lava.
Now, the fire has long faded
Leaving white ashes
That won’t come off

I need help
so I yell and I scream at them
until my lungs give up
and my heart gives out.
silently wishing, hoping
they’ll understand that
I’m not a terrible person.
I’m just hurting

I need help
so I etch the pain into my skin
pleading, begging, praying
for someone to notice the glaring welts

I need help
so I skip one meal
then three
make a chart for the weights
and the calories
waiting to reach the impossible goal

I need help
but I shake in my seat
suffocating in my own lungs
tumbling out of control
I grip my seat so tight my knuckles turn white
wait until
my breath hitches,
my breathing stops

I will never
hide
my story.
perhaps
a warning,
or a precaution of what not
to do.
but frankly,
I wouldn’t change much.
It really did make me stronger.
allowed me more empathy,
let me see
into a little
bit of horror
others go through.

don’t you dare
judge scars,
be grateful
you’ve been
trusted
with their
story.

we met again,
two strangers,
carrying the same memories.

time stopped too,
when our eyes met,
whispered hello.

but this time,
we walked away,
knowing the future.