the crimson rivers that flow through my veins
resemble the way tears run down my cheeks
like there's a dam within me
and it's constantly on the verge of breaking.
the cool undertones
that show through my pale skin
can tell you so many stories.
each capillary.
can recall an experience
of almost breaking through my epidermis
the ever so violent slashes
now faded
but still fresh in my mind.

Pitiful.
I sit with the blade in my hand
And all I’ve managed is a slice to the skin.
There’s no blood no tearing of the flesh.
I’ve returned to cutting
But I’m not taking this seriously.
Where once I would gouge a hole,
Where once I would part my flesh to see the blood run,
I am now a novice.
Just pathetic.

⚠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.

some days i am so sad
i feel like i could throw up.
i imagine it's all the words I've swallowed
trying to climb out of me.
on days like this,
i think about all the times people have told me
i deserve to be happy.
and for some reason,
i cannot stop crying.
on days like this,
i find myself unable to get out of bed.
on days like this,
i think to myself,
"there are no good days,
only days like this."
sometimes i can't seem to shake the feeling
that everyone's out to get me.
and suddenly,
people start to smile brighter
when i'm not around.
i know what i must do.

on days like this,
i wish i could just cut this sadness out of me.


abandon ship
j.c.