Superheroes don't cry
They're not famous
They do not fly

Instead superheroes weep

They walk like you and I
But have a heart that bounds and leaps

Superheroes are the everyday stranger
The dust that stays loyal to abandon houses
The drops of water in a desert

If you could talk to your younger self what would you say?
Would you laugh would you cry, dislike the same?
Love as you do or run away?

Tell her not worry, your world will change,
do not do not be afraid
do not do not be afraid

Tell her: you are enemies.
Tell him: you got to change.

If you could
If you could
If you could talk to your younger self, what would, say?

That sometimes, sometimes,
You must be hurt, to see
Be hurt, to see

Baby steps,
There’s so much, so much that you want to say

If you could see her
If you could see him

What would you do?
What would you do?

If you could, face him
If you could, face her

What would you do?
What would you do?

If you could
If you could
If you could talk to your younger self, what would say?

My friends know far less than they think they know.
I'm not good at lying - not at all.

"I was working" "I was at a driving lesson" "I was in the SU"

It isn't lying if I believe it.
I think it's the disassociation
That when the cuts that decorate my thighs split open and I find myself in the bathroom for hours trying to cover them up

I really do believe I am somewhere else

Somewhere where perhaps, I'm normal - surrounded by people who love me and we can laugh and laugh and laugh and cry together.

My friends, bless them are both a treasure and a curse.
A curse because they aren't really my friends
only friends of the persona I have constructed

they wouldn't like the real me
she is no fun to be around - more dead than alive

A treasure because they give me a reason to open my mouth each day
Give me a reason to think

When I would much much rather cease to exist

I’m addicted to the feel of cold metal sliding across bare flesh
Addicted to the instant
when nothing marks smooth skin
immediately before
red rivers rapidly rise
painting a once white canvas
with a flood of emotion,
tears on my cheeks,
sobs caught in my throat,
numbness replaced by pain & sadness.
Addicted to the imperfection
of red welts and dotted scabs that follow,
fingers drawn like magnets
to the texture of healing skin,
tracing over and over and over now fading ridges
Amazed that I am strong enough
to heal myself over and over and over.
Convincing myself that I am strong enough.
I find strength in my weakness.

Staying up late till the morning,
another day that wasn't saved.
Hanging from an old scar,
wishing you'd gotten out unscathed.