Sometime I want to die,
and I don't even know why.

To see the light at the end of the tunnel,
to embrace death as an old friend,
to no longer have to exist.

Sometimes it's triggered by something,
but sometimes,
it washes over me,
flows through me,
like molten iron running thru my veins,
burning me from the inside out.

But I continue to move forward,
for better or worse,
I'm not done fighting yet.

I remembered today a recent memory repressed.
I recall how my scared mind yelled when it happened,
It is technically in!
Oh my God, it's gone farther!

It's technically not considered ****,
it didn't go very far.
But I felt things I've never felt before,
and I've done a lot of things.

If his underwear weren't there,
it would have been ****.
But his underwear was there,
still I felt my privacy and lifestyle intruded,
and I still don't know what to call that day.

This was the day he left me.

There are two places where I feel safe,
here, this very site,
and that room.

It's weird to say I feel safe in a room
such as that,
it's a classroom.

But it's the one of my hero,
so I guess it makes sense.
Right?

I don't know.
All I know is that when I'm in there,
like when I'm on here,
I want to spill everything.

I want to tell her of the
**** that wasn't ****,
but I know I shouldn't

because who wants to hear that?
And will I even have the guts
to use my vocal chords to say it?

Can I say it aloud?
I never even told her the real reason Kung Fu came to an end,
that ****** assault has been a common occurrence the past few years.

I can even see the awkwardness now.
She'd ask how it was but was not,
and I'd have to tell her how I let my innocence go, to an extent.
I said no ***,
but it went in,
his underwear being my savior.

I'll tell her how I'm leaving to the next tower,
because my roommate kicked me out,
even though she was the one who caused the problems.
I'll tell her that, no problem.

I'll tell her how my neighbors
are strangers who think they know me.
I'll tell her my excitement to leave all this.
I'll tell her that, no problem.

But how do I tell her of my assaulter?
I need to outwardly tell somebody,
and I need one of her hugs.
Maybe it'll slip out.

I want to tell her, though.
I want to tell a lot of people.
But do they want to hear it?
That's my question.

There are two places where I feel safe:
here,
and that classroom.

I look inside and I see
Shards of glass buried deep
Slick and sharp, slicing me
When I breathe.

I can deal with pain that's
Forceful, full of feeling
But I don't do well with
Emptiness.

And having grown numb to
The razor blades within
The dark depths of my poor
Wounded soul,

I stabbed myself to rid
consuming vacancy.
But I failed to realize
It'd **** me.

You act like you’re the only one,
the only one who has urged to self-harm
to make the pain go away.

Tell me about it.
Tell me about how you’re alone
and pain might be your sole escape.

You’re going to tell me anyway,
because you’re alone and I know nothing.
I’ve never harmed myself.

I don’t use my hands against myself.
I don’t hold myself back from fighting back.
I don’t let myself hurt myself.

You’re alone,
no one gets you.
Right.

You don’t see reality.
You don’t see that it’s you who gets no one,
it’s you who makes others feel alone.

It’s you who’s made my hands turn on me,
and fight the physical and mental battle
against myself.

You act like you’re the only one,
the only one who has gone to self-harm
to make the pain go away.

I am not a shirt you try on,
and put back because you don’t think
it will work.

I am not a car you take on a test drive,
and leave with the dealer because you don’t like
how you look with me.

I am not a food sample at the food court that you take
to make the poor salesperson happy,
but spit me out later because my taste didn't suit you.

I am not an object,
not something you can spit out or put back.
I am a human being.