She touched me. In something so indifferent to maternity,
an inhumane humanity drying me of innocence.
She took my body, now a stranger of skin, and made it
a mess of cells that collide in agony.
Broken, may I say, but a break that'll never heal.
Fingers I can't quite comprehend, lacking dignity wholly.
I hate her. I hate how I still feel her hands on me sometimes,
an immortal grasp at my pride. I hate her.

This isn't my body. She stripped me of that right when she touched me.
This vessel I possess is proof that maternity can cruelly switch to molestation, and how disheartening the world can become once you meet its evils.
Brutality in the act is only half of it though, the rest is trying to cope with the loss of your own skin.
Not a body, just a brain weighed down by pounds of flesh that became property to an abuser six years ago.
I rarely feel human anymore, and that's if I ever did to begin with.
I am a thing. A thing designed to make other people happy, even if my own health, mental or physical, is compromised in the process.
The process, an activity ranging from starvation to downright ****** abuse. I used to starve sometimes for this woman just so I'd be praised, just so I'd feel worthy of living.
Losing sleep, losing my ******* mind, all for her to facetiously downplay the traumas she consistently constructed.
Carefully orchestrated, a symphony of horrors frequent to my mind, my body.. She stole my own life from me.
A part of me remains within her, and that sadly,
is what hurts the most.

Where were you when life dripped off my chin?
Intaking's a sin. You're a sinner.
I can't eat dinner, I'm not hungry.
It means nothing. THIS MEANS NOTHING.
It's the mirror, and it's controlling.
Reloading another bullet for a throat that's decomposing, and
as acid clambered up my mouth, I had quick thoughts of death.
A moment where flesh and bone may rot away the failed flavor,
yet a knotted mass of pain I'll never lose stings today,
gauging my limbs until nothing remains of me.
This pain is an everlasting parasite, and I cannot be saved,
for this nasty sickness is called a brain to me.

He's in your brain.
Deception is exhausting. It's haunting your purpose, binded with slow tears streaming your face as you beg him to stop. Empty expressions fill you up, nothing to feel, nothing to say... all you want is one reason to stay, and the world offers otherwise. Pain is inaudible at times, cover your mouth and arms, honey, it'll be all over in a year or so. Months pass with repression til you collapse on the bathroom floor and there's no more you. Remember when you felt something inside you? A light that shined through, no one could change you, and here you are.... Empty. Empty of everything, even your blood as it pools on the tile, no smile, no nothing.. Just something that once was. Something that'll never be again, and wasn't for far too long. Longer than when you left, longer than anyone knew. Somehow you make things even worse than when you were around, people lounge in black, eyes glued to the box you'll never leave, thinking of memories you'll never see as they regret unspoken compliments you'd refuse to believe. In this time, distant friends even cry for you, people will remember this for decades. One small act will change lives forever, couldn't you ever realize this? Open your wrists and you open a door to lost hearts searching for a reason, give them a reason, they need a reason. Notes aren't enough, stains aren't enough, the autopsy isn't enough, they need just one more conversation with you. But you can't give it...
Hey at least he's out of your brain though, right?

I provoke my demons, demonstrating
ways they can hurt me and invoke them to do so.
Choking them up, one by one, my fingers draped,
my senses blurred, mind emptied of their
nagging, stomach twisting as I realize what I did.
I watch them swirl, I watch them leave,
and I'm left with their staining guilt again.
Do I hold one strength if all I feel is weakness?
These demons want to win, and I always give in.
I pretend I'm in control until it seeps in;
straining my muscles, I failed again.
Constantly invited to events that
feel cathartic, but borderline insanity.
Emotions are high, devotion renewed,
I was used again.
I threw up again.

I'll leave the razor on the floor for you.
There's nothing that could've changed it.
I'm nothing, that's a fact, and I ******* hate it.
I can't be sorry for doing this, it gives me a sense of worth.
A sense of meaning, and that hurts, I'm too far gone now to cease the pain.
Sadness gives me solace, and so do two last cuts, down the middle,
one last time, because scars are not enough.
They were never enough.
Nothing is ever enough for me.
I'm ******* nothing.

Where were you something so deep, so cold?
Trapped in the wishing well of the untold.
Surrounded by meer memories of my past, I am never to see the present.
Why is it for myself I hold all this resentment?
I'm mad at myself, for I am so weak.
Days are passing and breath feels bleak.
I would always play by that wishing well, never knowing what time would tell.
Jump, climb, try to survive..
Although my inner hopes can barely thrive.
Breathe! Breathe, I'm starting to choke..
I miss my home, I'm so alone, falling deeper into onset misery, setting up my life for catastrophes.
Losing, losing! My humanity; I've sunk deep into my own insanity.
Now I have fallen, now I am gone;
now this wishing well is full of my blood.