Once I was A poem; lines of love and hope
Now I'm just forgotten  art;
I can't remember when my wrists turned into paintings with line cuts and scars
looking less and less like wrists and more like a canvas
But my scars aren't art and neither am I;
I cut and cut and cut and cut until my arms are crosses and jagged lines
This life is not for me

I am paper : I'm meant to be cut
I am just a match; I'm meant to be burnt
I am just a balloon; my Heart is meant to be popped

And I wish I could fix this
I wish I was okay
I wish
I wish
I wish
But it doesn't matter
Because I don't
Stuck in a whirlpool of my own pain

this is because i am...
I am a artist
I am a poet
I am a cutter
I am a starver
I am a mess of scars
And broken pieces
But the problem is
I am me
When I look in the mirror
All I see is a mistake
A little mess
Of pain And starving
And the scars all along my body
A problem
A smudge on humanity
But that's who I am
I guess I have to accept that

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

I think too much
it hurts too much
so I clean it all out with soap
but
       the
             soap
                       burns
and the pain hurts so comfortably