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This poem is for the girls and guys in limbo
Somewhere between love and lust
Up the dark road
Inside the cold box
This ones for you.
For u sweet dreamer
For the girls lusting for the boys who have only followed the trail of perfection
This is for the nerdy guys
Afraid of the way she flips her hair
And his own shadow
This is for the friend zone
Those who tip toe cautiously
Reading mixed signs
And deciphering smoke signals
This is for you
This is for heartachers
And the people that will never know there own doing.
This is for the girls who say no
And for the boys who don't know there power
This is for I love you's
Whispered under breath
This is for the crushes
And the people that love them
This is for the traded glances
And the misinterpretation
This for the hours wasted
And tears that have fallen
Fallen long enough to build you an ocean
Like a mote
to place around your heart
This ones for you dark forecasters
And glass half fullers
This ones for the poets and the phone calls
This is for the obsessing
The morris code blessing
And this ones for the confession
Those that take there pride and tuck it between their legs
This is for you
Stand tall
Tall enough to crane your neck to see the horizon
Because this may look different on the other side.
This is for the hopefuls
Those who love and still believe
This is for the love lyrics written
And those that repeat there songs
This is for you.
I get wrapped up in you all day
I get lost in ur gaze
I lose focus
Only thinking about the way your lips move as you speak
You get me so high
So high
I'm up there
Conversing with airplanes
And hot air balloons
And there is no convincing this girl to come down
Because the view from up here is indescribable
It's roof tops
And ridges
It's mixed messages
And anxious waiting
I could end the torture
Release the strain
Cut the string
And let the high bring me down
But I've become wrapped up in it
It's the blanket that keeps me warm at night
It's the song the plays over and over on the interstate
And I drive towards you
But I think it's the best thing I've ever driven towards
And you open me up
Like a book
You read every line
And memorize every word
Because u and I have become a short story
Written in a black ink
But never binded.
Printed
But never read.
Hoped for
But unfinished business.
And I'm ok with that
Because I have a memory of the way you move against me when you sleep
I can recall how your eyes look when your truly happy.
And I know just how happy you are
Because you may be the best friend a girl like me could ever ask for
And hey
Maybe you have a Contact high too.
My big sisters made every mistake in the book
A big book
I know
because it was like a manuel that I received at birth
Slid under our doorways
They gave out copies
They reprinted chapters
They drew out maps
They sketched out the details
We flipped through the pages
Turning each lesson
******* earing the good ones
Like the time my sisters got so mad they kicked in the door
Or the time my sister tried a creaky houses old pipes
Leaning over
"It won't flush"
Swoosh a wave of water
Or the lesson about heartbreak
Reminding my brother Joel and I
to look with our eyes closed
But hearts open
Because they said that's how you know the difference
And don't settle down to quickly
They whispered between hallways and bed sheets
Because marriage is forever
And people aren't gaurenteed
My sisters authored pages and pages
Roads leading to roads to new roads
And the book grew older
The book came out!
This time celebrating parenting
Remember to lock the front door
Because that toddler with the wild red hair will
try to
Houdini escape everytime
Or sometimes softer
Remember that this life is yours
And you are steered by your choices
Said the sister with the bright blue
Eyes
And midnight colored hair
And she said sometimes
You will have to trade in your ballet slippers
For bare feet
Just so you can truly have your feet on the ground
And listen said the other
Sometimes resolving and letting go
Is easier than holding onto tightly
As she shows us her bruises.
And be yourself Lael
And don't try to hard Joel
Because the boy with broken heart can't be fixed
And the girls with the wild sides can't be tamed
And make sure you both stand tall
But not looking down
Look straight ahead at the horizon
Because we've already done it like that
And the sun will always guide you back to blue skies.
And I if it doesn't they said
We sure as hell will.
Diversity of motivation among self-harming individuals

An estimated one in twelve teenagers has committed self-harm. Of those many will continue self-injuring into young adult hood. Yet older adults are not immune to committing this act. In 2003-2004 adults age 25-44 were responsible for nearly fifty percent of reported/discovered self-harm cases.  There are many reasons that people self-harm. These reasons may include self-harming as a survival mechanism, self-harm as an outer expression of inner emotional turmoil, and self-harm as a means to exercise control over one’s environment.
Contrary to popular thought, only one in ten people who make the decision to self-harm are suicidal. The majority of people who cause injury to themselves willfully have a wish to avoid killing themselves. The act of self-harm is developed as a “technique” to cope and survive the afflictions of life. How can we know that this is the reasoning or thought behind the action of self-harm? “Cutters” typically reason out the least amount of damage that will “remedy” the stress intensive situation that they find themselves in, and exercise an enormous amount of restraint in inflicting only a measured amount of damage. Cutters’ common logic is that through this expression of injury, further damage to their selves may be headed off. --------, a former cutter, attests to the reality of this when he says, “Every time that I touched a blade to my skin, I would resist making a larger cut, a deeper wound. Every time that I hurt myself, I did so only in response to what drove me over the edge; Each time the amount of physical damage that I did was the very least that I could muster. I fought to do the least damage I could, no matter how intense the pain that I felt became.” He sums it up rather nicely.
Secondly, self-harm is used as an outward expression of deeper, more complex emotional and psychological phenomena. It is not a diagnosis; it is a symptom. It is a symptom of a struggle that is inherited by victims of abuse, those who lose a loved one, or experience other traumatic events during their childhood. These groups are far more likely to indulge in self-harm. One study conducted by Boudewyn and Liem found that of those college students that reported a history of self-harm, fifty two percent had been sexually abused as a child. Those that self-harm do not simply cut to cut, burn to burn, or mutilate to mutilate. There is a deeper motivation. This motivation is commonly emotional. These motivational emotions are often the results of tragic or traumatic life experiences. It is seldom that a cutter’s motivation is a want for attention.  In fact, most cutters are chameleons.
Self- harm is used as a tool to exercise control in a chaotic environment over which one would not otherwise have any means to control. Among chaos and turmoil such as the loss of a parent or close friend, relational betrayal, divorce of one’s parents, or consistent, one time, or sporadic physical, emotional, or ****** abuse an individual is radically more likely to engage in self-harm. Outside reasoning on this is only speculative. For this reason it is valuable to look at the action from the perspective of those who commit it. Cody, the same individual mentioned earlier says something else that lines up with this common scholarly opinion. He says “I remember the very first time I cut myself intentionally. I was in the ninth grade, in the school bathroom. I had just experienced what I saw as betrayal by my best friend of about ten years. I felt like I lost him. I felt like things were spinning out of control, and I couldn’t control the way I felt about it all. The only way I could feel that control was with something sharp in my hand.” This is characteristic not only of ----- but also of many other cutters.
Cutters are not (necessarily) crazy. On the surface it may appear that cutting goes against the ingrained survival and self-preservation instincts in human beings. This is actually the opposite of the truth. Many who cut feel that if they don’t inflict smaller harm to themselves that they may indeed fall to suicide. They feel that by letting out their pain in increments, and escaping in fragments, that they can slay the thoughts of suicide and urges to escape that they carry. When at the edges of rational, some instincts may take different forms. What may seem counter intuitive – an act of self-harm – becomes the definition of an instinct that it seems to defy. The desire to survive becomes so strong that it is necessary to inflict pain. This is not uncommon to survival situations. For example, the movie 127 Hours reenacts the experience of a man trapped under a boulder in a beautiful and secluded gorge. He cut off his own arm with a dull multi-tool in order to escape death. That act is the epitome of self-harm as a survival instinct.
Cutting could lead to a series of events that tailspin out of control. Loss of control could take the form of the spiral of therapies and prescriptions that would follow if it were discovered that one were cutting , or it could be the accidental slip of a blade gone too far. It could end in hospitalization. It could even end in death. However, those individuals who choose to cut, as long as sober, take precautions to avoid discovery or more injury than is intended. They are meticulous, careful even. They reason out how, where, and when they can cut “safely”. They are very much in control over the act, when they feel they cannot be in control of anything else.
It may rationally appear that pain is pain. That it would make no difference whether out or inward, because whatever its state, the pain is still owned by the individual. However, emotions are often harder to process than physical events. A burning rage, hate or guilt may well be harder to cope with than a burn to one’s arm, leg, or hand. An emotional cut to the bone may be less painful than a physical one. It may be said that the act does not transform the pain, but multiplies it. This in essence may be true, but one form of pain allows a man to ignore another. A pinch may allow a man to ignore the emotional pain of a nightmare. A small cut may allow ignorance of the bigger cut on one’s spirit or psyche.
There are widely varying and increasingly complex variations of motivation and cause of self-harm. They may include, but are absolutely and in no way limited to: self-harm as a coping or survival mechanism, self-harm as a tool to exercise control over one’s increasingly chaotic environment, and self-harm as an outer expression of inner emotional turmoil. To believe that cutting is simple is to nearly deny it altogether. Its essence is complicated. Stereotyping self-harm or self-harmers may well lead to opinions that will ostracize or further encourage the occurrence of self-harm.  Since the motivation and causes of self-harm are undeniably complex, to attempt to brush this under a rock would be to diminish its importance, and to deny healing to those who need to understand it.
I look deep into the mirror
And I notice I have aged before my time.
I see the caverns in my eyes
Pasty skin and sleep deprived.

I can count the lines upon my forehead,
Etched deep by years of surprise,
Of frustration,
Of surly indifference
And I am only through a score of years.

I could go to bed sooner,
For it is not down to an enterprising purpose,
Or a creative flair
That I am awake until five every morning,
Stubbornly refusing to
Fall
Into another twitchy sleep.

The dead of night is rarely punctuated here;
Only by another sleepless soul,
Just looking for a reason.
For what?

This peace is only ever broken
By the sounds of the birds
And their sweet melody
Of territorial threats,
Both for the safety of their nests
And for your intrusion upon their time.

They sing: “go to bed, go to bed, a dreamless sleep if you go to bed”.

I know now I will not feel fresh when I awake,
But in these bleak months,
I see nothing to feel fresh for.
I had only ever seen
you in black and white
in faded out photos on a poetry page
in long letters typed out in
black letters on white
screen
they even lacked the curl of your hand
traveling over paper
but i asked about what color your eyes were
and i asked questions to discover colors
and we had so many colors in common
that we blended into a unique hue
of blue like your eyes and mine
of prismatic glory in our words and our minds
our colors clashed intensely in some places among the prism
allowing us to discover the brightness of colors
that we thought to be plain
an the intensity of new hues
deeper greens, blacks, blues
when they blended and were the same

we are like light
attempting to be black and white
and managing only to discover how colorful we really are
I am
breathless.
wordless.
my eyes attempt to take in
every little piece
of you.
They trace your edges.
Test them.
Dip into the shadows that your head
tilted down in shyness, nervousness, uncertainty mixed with certainty
casts across your neck
The ones that fade out as they reach for your chest
the same way i want to reach out and touch you
slide my hands gently across your skin
kiss you in places that i  never think I'd think to kiss you in
places i never imagined would curve so enticingly the way they did

I want arms
long enough to
reach out and pull you to me
until we share a
single
smoothe
edge.
I want you to
curve to my shape
I want to BE touched
and that fine line
is one I want you to brush your fingertips over
I'd relive it for pieces of forever.
Her name is Tiffany.

We met when

our orbits collided

                                  and crash landed,

on a wooden picnic table

                       in the dead of night.

I saw the world in her eyes—

and she had this spirit about her
       that made me want to follow
                her with an umbrella
                       the rest of my days
                             so she wouldn’t
                                    even be
                                      bothered
                                                by the rain.

I swore, I’d make her believe in                        h u m a n i t y.

Conversation, spit-balled from her lips like a machine gun

trigger stuck—

we tore through topics

                    like bullets tear through skin,

I tried my best to keep up.

We dead ended on the subject of children.
She grew silent, pale.

                      “I should be the mother of twins” she stammered.

I’ve been told I have quite the poker face, but in that moment

                                                                               I know she saw.

Turning her head as if to answer my unspoken question

“Miscarriage”
                        she breathed.

I spent the next however long soaking in her story, like a sponge.
I could tell,
                               she doesn’t do this often.

I have no respect for fathers who stain the honor of father
with a ******'s blood.

For boyfriends who can’t hear the word “No.”

over the sound of their
                                          d e s i r e.

These men painted her the color of smashed hymens.

On her wedding night,

she won’t forget.

She can’t give                                            what’s been stolen.

She finishes.
I exhale—breaking the silence first.

She looks at me, with all the innocence they must have stolen from her,

and i wonder

if she can

hear me

b r e a k


This, is the kind of story you read about.

I had no words to fix her— I couldn’t fix her.

All I knew was I wanted to sear my flesh and

m
   e
       l
         t

into the crevices of her broken self

and convince her

It will be okay.

“I swear, I’ll make you believe in
**h u m a n i t y.”
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