1 cut, 2 cut, 3 cut, 4. cry for a while then cut some more. open cut, closed cut, cut scabbed over. drink away the pain, then cut again sober. old cut, new cut, cut dripping blood. drag the blade across and watch as it floods. cut on my wrist, cut on my thigh. wait til everyones asleep, then cut in the night. small cut, big cut, cut too deep. sit and watch as it continues to bleed. hi cut, bye cut, it keeps bleeding out. see you later cut, its over now

Write with me

I want to hurt you
Mark your skin
My territory
My personal sin

Lock me up
Put me away
I'll let you order me
Like room service, as you say

I want to inject you
Directly into my vein
My new drug
Beautiful pain

Be my straight jacket
Hold me down
Be the addiction
To which I'm bound

Please finish, Sir,

"You asked me to finish it
Dare I say, I cannot
I'd need you beside me,
Screaming when to stop

I'm not sure where I begin
Or when or if, you ever end
Time is but an icicle,
After reading what you send

So grab those silver bracelets
And lock me into place
You can throw away the key
So long as I see your face

I'd crush the states between us
Set fire to all the land
If it meant bringing you closer
To my trembling, Cold hands

Warm me up?
Not a question
But my demand"

And thus, I quiver
Far beyond shake
Just the thought of your skin
Causes the earth to quake

Cold hands?
Please, let me heat them up
And when I'm filled with you
Over fill my "cup"

Spill yourself
Completely,
Deep inside
What's left of me

Do with me
As you please,
Because for you,
I'd stay on bent knees

A line I hear a lot of times.
My life—
bitter memoirs,
disappointments,
mental scars,
and feeling miserable
most of my
lonely moments.
Opened my emotions
only to feel vulnerable,
exposed to the
broken cold.

These past few days—
I hate them.
I ache in pain,
I cut myself—
my wounds on
my right arm
have no mouth
but scream for help.

Only to be sent away,
to hear them say,
“It’s not a punishment.”
A line that cuts deeper
than a sharp knife.

And yet I feel
so abandoned
in my own
treatment center.

In through the nose

Straight to the brain

That chemical drip

I attempt to refrain

White of the snow

Sparkle of ice

Set it before me?

Doubt i’d think twice

Days spent inpatient
Couldn't save me from me
Years spent in treatment
Failing to set me free
Dozens of medications
Just to be told it's BPD
Hundreds of coping mechanisms
Yet you still won't believe
I've worn myself out trying
To fight for a release.

please i need an out

                                         i need out please
    
                    i need out
  

                                                               ­        i need

                                                   o

                                                   u

                                                   t


i
   m

                                   S
                                      U
                       ­             f
                                   F
                                          o
                   ­               c
                                         A
                                     t
                                   I
                                       N
                                    g

Sometimes, I wish I hadn’t just been the backseat of your car,
Intoxicated. My first drunk hook up. My first. Period.
I picture myself being champagne on Valentine’s Day.
I picture myself being you, nervous in the car, holding Starbucks
because you know I love coffee. Sometimes, I picture myself as her,
calling you a stalker and ignoring your calls,
but then I see myself. I call you beautiful,
turn you into poetry, laugh at your bad jokes,
I see myself as I become your drunk Wednesday night
when you’re sad. I see myself as I say no,
I become a “this is not a good idea”
and you a “we’ll deal with the consequences in the morning.”
We laugh because this hurts too much.
You take her out for dinner and I burrow money
for Plan B because you forgot you don’t like condoms
and clearly have no idea how children are made.
I have already named him. He has your curls and
my anxiety. He is smart. Except, I never wanted kids and
you would be a great father. Instead, you tell her
the beach reminds you of her and I cry in a McDonald’s
bathroom with my friend as relief floods through me that
the test comes negative. I stop talking to you,
move forward, meet someone new and before long
see myself becoming you. Because isn’t that the cycle?
Bad men turn good women into bad women who turn
good men into bad men. I’ll set him free so he can hurt
someone like me, and I drink red wine as I read her
poems about him and me.

Cutting could be an emo's second death, or cutting could be an emo's second chance at life...

16
little
lines.

8 that bled
8 that disappointed

Cutting is bad. Self-harm is pain. Bottling is pointless.
Cutting is pain. Self-harm is pointless. Bottling is effective.
Cutting is pointless. Self-harm is effective. Bottling isn't' working.
Cutting is effective. Self-harm isn't working. Bottling was fuel.
Cutting isn't working. Self-harm was fuel.
Cutting was fuel. Self-harm is empty.
Suicide is.

Where am I?
How many lines until the end?