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Xyneli Jan 2020
Eighty-seven scars
line my limbs
They adorn me
Like pieces of costume jewelry

Ugly, disgusting costume jewelry
The kind you want to lock away
So nobody has to see
So nobody knows that
It even exists

But the jewels are fused to my skin
They won’t ever come off
They are part of my flesh
But they don’t cause me pain

The scarring slits remind me
Of those days
Those sad days
When I would sit in my room
And cry for hours

Or shiver in the shower
Blood dripping down my forearms
Flowing down my thighs
Turning the water rusty

I don’t even know why the Bad came
I had a great life
Maybe, I think, just
Not a great brain
I had a broken brain
A brain that would lie to me

I had the thought one of those nights
The nights before the Bad totally took over
“What if the pain numbs my brain?”
I thirsted for an escape from my own thoughts
From my corrupted mind

So I stumbled into the shower
And reached for my razor
It started very small, very controlled
Just three or four slits a week

But the number of cuts
Grew larger as time flew by
The cuts grew deeper
The water grew redder

It was an addiction
Like Xanax
It would take over and make my brain
Start thinking those horrible thoughts again
I’d tell myself to stop
But I wouldn’t: I couldn’t
No matter how hard I tried

There were switches
Every so often
I would be happy
In a temporary fashion

Then the bad
Would overwhelm
And I would spiral
Out of control

It was an
Endless cycle of pain
Sometimes with a small
Amount of relief, only periodically

I felt empty
Like a fragment of shattered glass
In the roadway:

Xyneli Jan 2020
Her eyes
Are empty
Yet full
Of memories,
Full of
Life itself

Her heart
Is shattered
But to
The naked
Eye, it
Is new
And clean
And fresh

Her wrists
Are scared
And shattered
If you
Don’t look
Too close,
You’ll never
Even know

She is
A mirror,
A reflection,
Not real,
But not
Fake either.
A living,
breathing paradox.

Nobody knows
Her secret.
Except herself
And her
Pen. She
Is what
Some people

A writer

A poet

A psychopath.

Not all poets are crazy people, but all crazy people are poets.
Xyneli Jan 2020
solid gold
peaking over purple mountains

an orb of great majesty glistens,
it's beauty almost blinding
Midas reached down and touched the sky

shining in the smoggy haze
contrasting modern life
it is pure and simple

a colorado sunset
is the most beautiful thing
a person could ever lay eyes on

Xyneli Jan 2020
i glance
in the
but i
don’t recognize
the girl
my reflection
claims to

Xyneli Jan 2020
wind in my ear
“i love you”

i’m not sure who is crazier:
me or the wind


— The End —