It has become customary to press a blade to the inside of my left wrist when she tells me I am worthless.

I ache for the blood to seep from my damaged skin, pumped through my body from my damaged heart.

I sit in silence and wait; for him to come in and comfort me, to show me care and compassion, but he doesn’t.
Not anymore.

It’s hours.

I made a plan in seventh grade that the anklet would stop the burn of silver.

Anklets break.
Promises break.
It all becomes okay.

After the death of my grandmother, the last time I thought I would do it, I found a red string.

Tied it around my ankle.

Promised myself I would never do it whilst it was on.

But bad days exist.
And so do scissors.

And everlasting stress that never leaves and an easy way to feel without feeling.

Blood bubbles when it seeps through the gaps in your skin.

And it hurts but what hurts more is the ache in your chest when she tells you
you're stupid
             you don't respect me
                        you owe use
                                    we own you
                                                I want to hit you
                                                            c­hange your attitude, girl
                                                            ­            Watch out
                                                             ­                       Obey me
                                                              ­                                                             I AM YOUR MOTHER  

as if mother, was a synonym for god.

Guilt and hurt and god how did I end up here again?

It's knowing the answer.

Its knowing blame is bad and modesty is good and pain is for the ones who love but love is for the ones who are free from pain.

It's having to keep silent because asking for support is like giving her another bullet
            another thing to say
                        another reason to want to die

And when you pick your own crying body up off the floor, bruises from biting and pinching and hitting and clumps of hair and tissues of blood,

It's being alone.  

Its the eerie silence that follows.

It's concealer on wrists. It's looking down to avoid eye contact. Its wishing someone would ******* notice.

it's structured loneliness.

it's the skills you had to learn all alone.

It's fighting for breath, not knowing whether to stop or breathe.

It's about helping others

                                                               ­         before ever helping yourself

It's being called worthless at the bottom of bad days

It's your own problems magnified because you don't hide them well enough

                                    It's hurting
                                                                ­       and I want it to stop

I write as the blade is pressed to my wrist once again.

Your turn

my bones

to dust.


without a

thought or

consequence.


and no

matter how

many times

I make

love to

you ,


you always get

up from

our bed

leave.


and days

later I

can still

feel your

teeth

in my

chest

as I

breathe.


and I

fear my

punctured heart

is losing air.


but that

is never a

concern for

you.


only myself

and your

stable of

one night

lovers.


who share

the marks

of the

beast with

me as well.


and the

unholy feeling

that our souls

have been

eaten alive.


and our

eyes have

been

torn out

and hurled

through the

face of

the sun...

you should have known me
I've always been so lonely

when I don't answer the phone
so lonely

when I take too many showers in a day
crying tears mixed with water falling on my head

what should have I done

I've told you all the things I've done

nothing ever changed


so I became so lonely
lonely

I'll never be someone else

so lonely
so lonely


you should've known