Trigger Warning: Involves cutting and attempted suicide as well as an abusive relationship*

J knew better than to be doing this again, especially after last time, but they couldn't help the sense of pure joy that they got when they pulled the slick razor blade from its package. Strangely enough, the sight of the unrusted, sharp, seductive blade made J smile, proving that they gave no other thought to how they shouldn't be doing this. The date was set, now. There was only one thing to do when they got this far along in the process.

They thought to themself, "It's just a few cuts, nothing to it, no reason to worry," though the truth was they knew that they weren't going to stop. Even with everything that they had finally gotten through, even with all the hardships that they fought against, the only thing they couldn't seem to get over was the act of splitting of their skin by their own hands.

They perched themself on the edge of the bathtub and glanced up to check that the door was locked, eyes darting back down after confirming that there was no way someone could walk in on them. They peered down at the barcode of an arm they had, smiling softly to themself as they took the blade into their mouth to hold while they rubbed their now free fingers up and down the bumps protruding from their skin.                                                  

'Not enough,' J thought to themself, shaking their head to get rid of the little voice in the back of their mind screaming, "Don't, J, he'll be mad! J you'll be punished!"

"He only cares because he owns me," J barked back aloud, voice rough and unforgiving. "If he didn't own a part of me, do you really think he'd care? Of course not. This is my rebellion. I don't want to be a part of this world anymore. I don't want to be some part of his sick entertainment."

Each of the bumps along their arm basically begged to be pulled open again, and with their fingers slipping up to their lips to retrieve the blade, they happily obliged. Every slice made upon their skin made J throw their head back, laughing at the sensation of the little pinch followed by the warmth of their blood.

"You know, for a second I thought you'd stop, little bird, but of course, you never listen to reasoning."

"*******, and **** your so-called reasoning, Bear."

Bear stood up straighter now, eyes piercing with malintent.

"You will not talk to me in such a manner, J, have you forgotten your place?"

"My place will never be under you, Bear."

"All humans like yourself belong at our feet. You've made a mistake, J, and now you will atone." He reached towards them, attempting to pull the blade away from their now half-opened arm, but J screamed and kicked away, jumping into the bathtub with their back against the wall, glaring up at Bear with the same glint in their eyes. "What are you doing, J? You cannot run from me. not here, and definitely not anywhere else."

"Don't you dare ******* touch me."

"I own you, J. I own your hands, I own your thoughts, I own your soul. I will touch you whenever I please. And you? You will obey me." J made another deep cut along their wrist, exposing the vein, the blue fading into the red as J bled out. "You think suicide will take you from me? How idiotic you must be, J. You'll just be easier for me to torture."

At this moment in time, J started sobbing, causing Bear's smile to widen as he leaned in closer, brushing the hair back from J's eyes before wrapping a hand around their throat. J didn't flinch, already used to such treatment from their past, but kept eye contact as they smiled through the streams running down their face.

"**** me," they gasped from behind the force of Bear's hand, but he only tsked at them, pulling away.

"I wouldn't give you the honor," he laughed through a sneer, now standing with his arms crossed as he looked down at J's shaking body; obviously they were fighting back against screaming again. "Now, give me the blade, J."

"W-Why," J asked through shaky breaths, letting their arm fall to their side, the blood pooling down into the tub, staining J's leg with the crimson color, emptying out down the drain. "You don't care, no one cares, let me do it, then I can be all yours to **** with, right?"

"J. Give me the blade."

"Why? Why does it matter? If I'm gone, it'll be easier to **** with me, won't it? So, just let me do it, you don't care, right, Bear? So why?"

Bear was clearly fed up with the dramatics here and leaned down once more to ****** the blade with little resistance from J, who let themselves go enough to hide their face and scream into their bare knees, still coated with blood, as each knee rose to J's chest.

"You'll be punished for this, J. You lied. You said you'd stop. You said you'd throw them away. And you know I despise liars."

"Oh, great, what is it this time? More sleepless nights?" J sniffled, breath hitching in their throat. "Do it, ******, do whatever. I don't care anymore."

"So dramatic, little bird. You know better than to call me names, don't you? And besides, doing anything to you wouldn't affect you, you're too used to it. I'll punish my little princess in your place, and maybe even Nicky as well."

J looked up then, frozen in fear. A weakness, their worst one, was the hurting of their friends.

"Please," they whimpered, uncovering their face enough to get on their knees, crawling out of the bathtub to sob at Bear's feet. "Not them."

"Bad girls get punished, little bird. You know that," he cooed with a smile, reaching down to pet J's head. They looked up at him, ****** arm soaking Bear's lower half as they clung to him. They offered a final, soft "please," but Bear was already gone, leaving J to fall onto the floor, curling against themselves into a small ball, screaming out their friend's names.

Nothing brings me joy anymore
I sit and I draw or I write
and nothing, there's nothing there
I want to cry, desperately I do
But I just can't
I feel empty and numb, but I was doing so well earlier.
I'm alone
with these thoughts and these nonexistent yet overwhelming emotions
I want to curl up and sob
but I can't
so how do I know that this feeling is even as bad as I make it out to be
If I can't cry?
What am I doing?

back
from a failed attempt at finding myself
and a failed attempt at losing myself.
i'm here to say that it hasn't gotten better
even with all the pills
and all the support
i'm here to tell you, with sadness in every letter,
that there is no hope for me
so what i'll do instead, is tell myself
and tell the people that read
that you decide whether or not you come back
you have to choose for yourself
no one else will do it for you
i chose to figure myself out
and i chose to ignore the obvious
we are human with mistakes etched into every fraction of who we are
we are mistakes.
and we are meaningful ones at that
like when you write one thing
and it's blurred or smeared into art
we are the ink still fresh on paper
we are beautiful problems
and we choose our form

I am alone.
The only sound is the vibrations from my air conditioner breathing into the empty space filled with clutter that is my room, and the background of the television in the living room of a child playing Fortnite.
I sit, legs crossed, on my bed with my computer tilted back slightly so I don't have to move as I type up something meaningless to put into the world in hopes that someone, anyone, will get what I'm really trying to say behind these words.
I stare around my room, desperately searching for a way to make anything feel surreal, I don't look at the keyboard; I don't need to, and I am content yet disappointed with everything and nothing all at once.
I turn towards my basil plant, he's been growing in my room for a few months now, but I wonder if he wishes and longs for the outside the way my body does when it rains.
My phone does a small alarm, and at first, I'm thinking "SHE WANTS TO CALL SHE WANTS TO CALL SHE WANTS TO CALL" in a manner of a second before I recognize it as an Instagram notification, not one from messenger.
I recall, suddenly, how you always make me out to be some one-dimension person without depth, and I wonder if that's who I really am.
Am I nothing behind these words, just someone who types and waits for the real souls to make something out of it, is that all I am? Without true thought, just words without meaning, just sound without a voice, just a paintbrush without the paint.
I'm nothing until someone reads this, and suddenly I'm some sort of attention seeker, right? I assume so, have you even read my other poetry?
Every other one is about cutting or death or depression.
Like, we get it, J, you wanna die.
do it already.
but I won't
and despite what you think, it's not because I'm afraid of the afterlife, or the absence of such, or the possibility. I'm not afraid of death, I'm not afraid of being nothing, of being bones and decay, of being sent to hell, of being part of the universe as my atoms spread, I just don't mind.
you told me that I just thought about what's in front of me, rather than thinking of the beyond, but you're mistaken. I think about it often, I just don't mind. Because I've wanted death for a good portion of my existence, I'm unbothered with any theories of what happens, I'll be dead in some way, and that's all that I really want.
but then I have this little thing called hope
so I don't cut too deep, I don't hang myself, I don't completely decapitate my head from my shoulders.
because what if.
What if there's a life waiting for me
a life with a wife who holds me close during the day and closer at night
a life with three kids who call me dad, who love both me and their mother
what if there's a life where I don't constantly feel this weight pressing down on me?
I'm not afraid, I can say this without a doubt, I'm not afraid of death or what happens when I leave this existence, I just don't mind it.
The air conditioner has gotten too loud and my mouth suddenly feels dry.
I set my tea on my altar, but my legs feel like they want to cry so I don't want to get up.
I haven't cut, mind you, I think I've just sat like this for a little too long.
I turn towards my plant
and I wonder if he, too, wishes and longs for the outside the way my body does when it rains.

I just. I don't know. I can't talk to you without my ******* feelings getting in the way because for some ******* joke of the universe, you looked over Emily's shoulder at the right time. I can't ******* do **** without being reminded of you every ******* second of every day.
I can never sleep right, knowing I hurt you. I don't deserve you. I should have curved you, I know I'm the worst boo.
I can't listen to my favorite songs by my favorite artists because there the ******* are, just right there, sitting next to me in that ****** car, with my sweaty ******* hands lovingly in yours
I miss that
I miss knowing without a doubt that you loved me
and here I am typing this **** up because I can't seem to find the courage to tell you to your face
stop lying with your I love you *******. you stopped a long time ago, that much is obvious.
I can't paint without thinking of how you used to paint, and I always thought they were so beautiful but like everything else about you, you could never see the truth about how incredible you were to me
I loved you
I love you still
and it ***** because I know it doesn't change, you're not just gonna pick up the phone anymore

you're probably sleeping
maybe you've developed a normal sleeping habit since we fell apart
regardless, I know you're somewhere
peacefully existing
and here I am, likely to stay up until four in the morning
struggling not to cut, probably losing the battle
but hey, I took a shower today
that's got to count for something, right?
****.
You're probably sleeping
maybe you're out with friends having a blast getting blasted
regardless, I'm sitting here listening to music
doubting my own existence
and there you are, unlikely to call me until I've finally gone to bed
easily getting through the hours, not minding the time between us
but hey, we called for a little today
that's got to count for something, right?
****

three years ago, I was broken
to say the absolute least.
I was torn between the walls
of my flesh
fighting battles between my breaths
arguing within myself,
out of myself,
for myself, and
against.
you'll notice that I'm not as quick with my words
metaphoric with my phrases
not nearly as expressionate and passionate and
let's just say it
dramatic
as I once was.
I am not the person I was then
I think that a new introduction is needed.
Hello, my name is J
I'm 21 years old, 160 or so pounds,
and I don't care what pronouns you call me.
I have a loving common-law husband
and an almost two-year-old daughter.
I have been clean from cutting for nearly three years now
on October 12th.
No drugs in three years on New Year's.
I. Am. Okay.
I cry less often and sit and stare less.
I clean and cook and learn every single day.
I'm still not too sure what it is that I'm doing
because I never thought that I would make it this far
but by god, I am DOING it.
I have BPD.
so if you knew me then, maybe all of my ramblings
FINALLY
makes a little more sense.
They do to me.
I don't write
not nearly as often
and maybe that's my most obvious sign that
I'm better than I was
three years ago.