Im sorry little one.

You are not as golden as you think you were.
You will be colored gloom and gray,
and everything will be a blur.

You cry an awful lot,
all you need is an embrace
But then you will learn to conceal it with a straight face

You will suffer with fear, grief and rage,
Your solitary will be a tragedy in a small stage.

Im sorry little one, you are only a child.
Still, this is the recollection of your youth all filed.

Eventually, though...
You will grow..
Into me.

Collectively, we will flourish on healing.

He gave me dead flowers
So I can smell them every day
The rotten petals falling
The color of decay

The washed out sunflower
The dehydrated leaves
The mold on the water
The color of debris

The richly red rose
Now drooping to the floor
The color of love
Existed no more

But still I saved the flowers
And smelled them every day
And watered them with tears
To let them grow again.

I lay a girl to rest in the flowers.
She sleeps softly in her meadow bed.
I stand by, Woman, strong.
I love her with all my heart
But I am glad I am not her.
Not anymore.
A snake slithers through the grass
His name is Death
And I am, at last, afraid of him.
When he strikes at my heel,
I crush his head.
All my force aided by
The blankets of comfort I wear around my shoulders-
Collected from my Dear Ones
And from the One above.

Suicidality fades,
Suplexed by love.
I loved myself with all the violence of a wrestler.
I threw my self-hatred on the ground;
Crushed the head of my snake.

Now-
Back straight
Head high
Hair curling around a sun bonnet
Skirt rippling out
Boots splashing in puddles
Music in ear and heart

I graduated at last
From barely surviving
To fully living.

⚠Trigger Warning; the following poem contains subject matter pertaining to self-harm ⚠
~

"These violent delights have violent ends."
~William Shakespeare

~

When the crevices
on my wrists
solder themselves together
and the rich, crimson stanzas
become illegible,
I unsheathe my quill--

melancholy's scribe.

The ink clots,
driblets of red
bleeding through these pages

but I keep writing

until
this parchment lies
sweetly torn

and

I smile.

Now,
that's what I call

poetry.

**
How violently delightful.

If I think too hard

I can still feel their hands on my body
Four of them rubbing and squeezing and grabbing my skin
Desperate for my oblivious being.

If I think too hard

I can still feel the scratch of his stubble
As his skin rubs mine
And the other caresses me
Taking away my control.

If I think too hard

The world still spins
I can hear the moaning
And the distant sounds of nature
Outside of our tent, but so far away from my reality.

If I think too hard

I can hear their comments of praise
To each other
As I lay there blind drunk
And they do with me what they please


If I think too hard

I try desperately to shield the memory,
The three of us entangled
And together,
A trio of drunken disgrace.

If I think too hard

I cringe and cry
And my legs clamp shut
Disgusted at my stolen consciousness
And forever violated by my memory.

If I think too hard

I hate myself for what happened
I hate him for being drunk
And I hate the other for being selfish,
Breaking my heart and my trust

something about me is fallen
my walk is not the same
the lengthy strides I took in confidence
are now short steps that I fumble
the hours I spent sculpting my figure through exercise
are now spent in my bed asleep re living the nightmare
and you
you are especially different
the affection you poured onto me
and the time you devoted
are now excruciatingly difficult to live without
you fooled me into thinking we were something more
than a new story to boast through to your friends

I miss the old me
Old old old old me
Young me
Full of life me
Still
Innocent me
Now I don’t like me
I let you take me
let you break me
I still can’t face it

I miss the old old old old me
Old me
Young me
Full of life me
Still
Innocent me
Now I got scars on me
Scars on my heart
Scars on my eyes
Scars on my brain me
What do I see?
I miss the old old old old me
Old me
Young me
Full of life me
Still
Innocent me

What do you see?
See I can’t see me
Too in the dark type
Never turn on the night light
Always assume the worst type
I miss the old me
old old old old me
Old me
Young me
Full of life me
Still
Innocent Me.

I miss the old me
Old old old old me
Young me
Full of life me
Still
Innocent me
Now I don’t like me
I let you take me
let you break me
I still can’t face it

I miss the old old old old me
Old me
Young me
Full of life me
Still
Innocent me
Now I got scars on me
Scars on my heart
Scars on my eyes
Scars on my brain me
What do I see?
I miss the old old old old me
Old me
Young me
Full of life me
Still
Innocent me

What do you see?
See I can’t see me
Too in the dark type
Never turn on the night light
Always assume the worst type
I miss the old me
old old old old me
Old me
Young me
Full of life me
Still
Innocent Me.

You know what I thought
When I was falling
Off that building and
I went into panic mode?
The last thing that
My stupid brain
Could come up with?
"Won't they be sorry"