gaping wounds,
wide eyes,
steady streams of life trickling,
draining my body
of the happiness it once held.

pain doesn't always have to be externally felt,
does it?

i suppose i am composed
of some of my mother
and parts of my father
no matter how i try to shed them both
i am warped by premature exposure
to prostitution and *******
my veins are ***** from
the needles i don't use
and my head is clear from
the pills i don't take
painted skin covers
the pale emptiness
my skin as a canvas
that all too accurately reflects
the blank white nothing inside of me
cruel hope after hope that's been
left to disappoint
disapproval of myself end to end
fiber to fiber is deemed inadequate
so focus outward forget about this body
how to impact the world
how to change the world
how to fix the world

they always told me
that my heart would never heal
if i kept letting it break
and break
and break
and break
but i never listened
and probably never will
because i gave up on caution when i was 12
nowadays i claw at my throat
and tear at my hair
pick at scabs on my forehead
and play with pencil sharpener blades
all to get away
just to get away
maybe one day i'll get away
but for now i am stuck
in this never ending ocean
of chewed up words
and scarred skin
and fragments of memories once held dear
because once anything gets close enough to me it shatters
just as i have shattered myself

they called me crazy
for refusing to pick flowers
for saving spiders from the kitchen
and for talking to birds rather than humans

they called me crazy
for clawing at my wrists
for eating my own words
and for tearing out my hair for allowing myself to feel

nothing ever satisfies
when you worry about the endless amount
of "they"
and "them"
and what "they" think

nothing ever satisfies
when "they" meet your demons
and "they" make a home
in your own ******* ribs

sext: i thought of you and put down the razor

Today
I am...                                                                                            I am but
                                                                                                       a shadow,
of who I was. A broken, grey thing.
                                                                                                     a voiceless
thing, miming lyric and ****** rhyme,
A broken watch that's keeping time
and the watch has hands, but it's
                                                                                                     faceless
and in the broken wiry strands, I'm
                                                                                                    hidden,
waiting to stop time, and rewind
back to the moment when you shared my misery.
But you broke free,
and now you mock me.
Your laughing life mocks me, leaves me
                                                                                                    raging,
and vainly                                                                                  hunting
How dare you be a beautiful something,
and leave me behind to be this ugly
                                                                                                    nothing.