I sharpen a wooden pencil,
whilst they sharpen a blade,
I open up a one-subject notebook,
they roll up their sleeve.

I press the graphite to a page,
and they against their skin,
And their relief comes in as blood,
while mine only comes in ink.

One of my co-workers has scars on her wrists, covered by tattoos that do no good to hide them.
Not if you know what to look for.
I know what to look for.
I wonder her past, the ghosts hiding under the beautiful face, the blonde hair with the pink strips, the smile.
I wonder if she had an abusive upbringing like I did. If, as a teenager, she hid against her door bringing a razor blade to ****** skin until the ghosts bled out.
I know what that's like.
I would never glorify selfharm, never wish upon anyone the hell of feeling the need to release your mental pain in a physical manifestation.
But the relief it gives me to know that I am not the only one hiding scars under tattooed skin and long pants...
The relief is enough to make me hug her at night.
Tell her I'm glad that I work with her.
She is 36, 15 years older than me.
But our souls seek each other out, the broken souls know other broken souls so well.
I am glad she survived her demons.
I'm glad I'm surviving mine.

I awoke in a mask of makeup and blood
Caked-up and confused, I stood
Scraped away at my crusted face

I'm surprised by the sweet words flowing from your swollen mouth
Because I know that you don't remember my name, but you say you love me anyway
I rub my skin raw
And scrub my teeth 'til they bleed
My mouth tastes like yours,
But you don't mean a thing to me anymore.

Turn the key and unfold me, darling.
My muscles ache from holding back from you for so long.
My fingernails miss your skin
My ******* miss your cheek
And my lips miss your hair.
But there are ghosts in our mattress now and your scent has long since washed away like the contents of my of my skin-bag down this drain, to the ocean. I used to believe it held the souls of the lost, those who believed not in gates or flames.
I know now I was foolish to believe that siren's tale, but the way the waves crash and shatter against the rocks mirrors the blade against my wrist and I know now I was foolish to believe in you too.

to the self harmer holding the blade, wanting nothing more but for it to kiss flesh, know that you've been days clean and you don't deserve another scar.

to the self harmer digging your nails into your thigh after a fight with your parents, know that this storm will pass.

to the self harmer shaking as you bury countless blades in the dirt, know that you've never been as strong as you are now.

to the self harmer hiding deep under your skin, know that your scars are nothing more than a reminder that you're still alive.

to the self harmer rocking the realest smile you have had in weeks, you made it.

The perfect crime
Is rather easy to commit
Each person's limit is one time
There are no victims in this
Because the victim and perpetrator
Can never be the same person
Everything is a controlled factor
And there's nothing to hold you on
No loose ends left untied
You can leave evidence all you want
Your actions go unjustified
Can't send you to jail for such a stunt
And though it is illegal
You won't have to run and hide
The perfect crime for all
Is simply suicide

When the dreamer gets exposed to reality not only the dream dies, but the dreamer itself too.

Elsa is so kind
She always writes
Supportive comments

I send a hug
Through the web
To you Elsa

Maybe I'll give my pillow
A small hug and pretend
It's you

Well,
If that's okay with you