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Illya Oz May 2018
How can you even start to express to someone that you want to watch yourself bleed...

That you want to rip open your own skin and feel the warmth trickel down you body.
Watching it seap out of you and slide across your skin.

How do you explain that this is a craving stronger then you could ever describe and ever so hard to resist.
That this red liquid is able to quench your metaphorical thirst for emotional relief.

How can you explain that that it helps...
That in some twisted way the pain makes everything hurt less.

How do you explain to them that it scares the living hell out of you,
That this is something you can do to yourself,
That this is something you want to do to youself.
The knowing that even after so many years you still crave it,
And you don't think you will ever stop craving it.

How can you explain to them that you don't want them to think you're crazy.
That it just hurts too much for you to bare.
That you are trying to bare it but the pain you feel inside is too much.

That the fact that you can't see this pain scares you,
that others can't see your pain scares you,
That you don't even understand this pain scares you.
And maybe this is why you crave watching yourself bleed.

It's a pain you can see,
A pain that others can see,
A pain you can understand,
But now that you see the pain you understand that you don't want others to see it.
Because how could you even beguin to explain.


How could I ever beguin to expain to you that I want to watch myself bleed...
I heard a line in a slam poem recently about someone with an eating disorder which really resonated with me. "I consider myself recoverd but still talk about my eating disorder in present tense."
I am 2 years 'recoverd' from self-harm, yet many days I still battle with the 'addiction'. Everyday is a question of 'Will today be the day I relaps', 'Will I be strong enought to fight it today.' Yet I don't talk about it. Most people just don't understand and I don't know how to explain it. I don't want their sympathy, the way they look at you like if they say something your going to shatter like glass. I don't think I will ever truly recover from my self-harm, it will stay with my for as long as my scars do, a lifetime.
Illya Oz May 2018
I didn't write my essay...

Because in a room of silence,
Everything feels so loud.
My brain is screaming at me to run away,
Like the paper in front of me has claws and teeth,
Just waiting to tear me apart.
I want to tear it apart.

I can feel it bubbling and boiling up my throat,
Suffocating me so the anxiety can breath.
But I can't breath.
When did this silence become so deafening?
I had a SAC (a very important test) yesterday. I've had a really bad depressive episode for the past week, not able to concentrate in class and kept telling my teacher I was fine. I wrote 3 sentences for an essay that was ment to be 600+ worlds long because I was so anxious. I wrote this poem on the back on my essay. I wonder what my teacher is going to say.
  Apr 2018 Illya Oz
JDK
I'm cool.
You're cool.
We're cool
It's cool.

We're cool.
It's cool.
I'm cool.
You're cool.

"Hey dude,
you alright in there?"

"Yea man,
it's cool."
So not cool.
Illya Oz Apr 2018
The insomniatic somnolence coats me.
16kHz of sound running through my eardrums.
Empty words written on the walls of bathroom cubicals.
The lifes of people who come and go,
Snagged on the emtpy soap dispensers.

***** lino floors folded at the edges.
The rattling sounds of doors locking around me.
Plastic seats flipped down to carry weights,
Of the people who come to just sit down.
The rusted hinges on doors I can't seem to leave through.

This is both my prison and my safety.
I'm sitting in cubical of my school bathrooms because I'm too anxious and depressed to go to class. The door to the bathrooms gets locked during class time so now I'm stuck in here
Illya Oz Apr 2018
When you say you want to die,
I want to say 'me too',
But I can't,
Because you're only eleven.

When you ask about the scars on my arm,
I tell you it happen by accident,
So not to give you any ideas,
Because you're only eleven.

When you cry and I hold you tight,
I tell you a lie,
That everything is going to be ok,
Because you're only eleven.

When I cry I cover my eyes,
I don't want you to see my pain,
So I can help you deal with yours,
Because you're only eleven.

When things get to hard,
I want to keep you safe,
So you don't have to face the world alone,
Because you're only eleven.

When you say you want to die,
I promise to help you live,
And give you the support I never got,
Because I was only seven.
I still don't know how I feel about this poem. It's about me and my little brother (I guess mental illness must run in the family). I've always felt the conflict of what is the best thing to do when he tells me he wants to die. Do I be the strong older sibling or tell him I understand and have been through the same things (as a role model that can backfire really badly, it's hard to explain). I still don't know what the right thing to do is and I don't think I ever will
Illya Oz Apr 2018
You called me cupcake
Because that's all you saw
The sweetest parts of me
Not the the scars that I bore

I will call you a lion
Because of the strength in your heart
You were always so brave
So caring, so smart

But now we have both turned to mice
Too scared to fight our wars
Because you are not longer mine
And I not longer yours

This is not what I wish
Disassociated from you
Without a word spoken
To much isolation for two

I want you to know
That I still love you
Just not the way...
I use to

I want to talk
I want to speak
I want you to smile 
So my world isn't so bleak

Just because your not 
My whole world any more 
That doesn't mean I don't 
Need you to be part of it
This is a repost of a poem I wrote in october of 2016. I had broken up with my significant other (for reasons that weren't their fault) but i still cared a lot about them and didn't want to lose them. They ignored me for almost 3 months after that but eventually we became close again and they are now my best friend (we are in a queer platonic relationship for all those who know what that is). I was so scared of them disappearing from my world and didn't know if i could live without them. They are the most amazing person I know and I'm so lucky to have them still in my life. I love them so much, even if i will probably never show them these poems.
Illya Oz Apr 2018
A million centipedes are crawling under my skin.
I've killed all the plants in my mind's garden.
Waterlogged with saline as I try to dehydrate my face.
But I'm not prepared when they come out to play.
They climb up the hypertrophic ladders on my skin.
Clawing at me while I rip off all their anthropomorphic legs.
They seep poison into my bloodstream that contaminates my brain.
It leaves me helpless.
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