She once expressed the feeling,
of blood pouring from her skin.
Self infliction. Something held dear,
to those who don't realize,
they have the potential to heal.

She once told me, she didn't know how to feel,
so she coaxed the feeling from her bones,
in the form of blades, until her skin itched,
from all the unneeded attention.
Cracked, and bleeding,
hurt pouring from her overly expressive eyes,
she masked the pain, walked among us,
as just another misunderstood,
stargazing child.

Her name became stitched into constellations,
for her eyes never left the sky,
unless to stare down at her tiring feet,
and hope to be transparent in her depression,
to people standing on street corners,
seemingly inviting her to join them.

She knew she'd someday board a bus, and consciously leap into the unknown.

Her minds limitations would no longer hold her down.

And one day, they'll all be gone.
Like constellations that slowly stray,
and fade into the ever stretching sky.
Nothing lasts forever,
even the bones,that keep you
from falling apart, will someday
just be matter, turning to dust.
One day, it'll all be different,
your old stomping grounds will be wearing thin,
the plumpness of you cheeks will deteriorate,
and your eyes will sink, hollow with age.
Your old high school friends, gone with the wind.
Their names on the tip of your tongue, yet still,
light years away.
The tides will continue on,
just like they did, that night, all those years ago,
when you had a bit too much alcohol,
and the boy you just met kissed you,
and then danced with you,
the only music being a starry night,
and the hum of the ocean.
You swore you'd never forget those eyes.
Swore the taste of his lips would,
never leave your tongue.
But now, the details have faded into a near nothing,
and you'll have a new life.

A new shell to break out of.

For some,
strength comes in the
shape of butterflies.
We grip the blade in
search of redeement, but then,
drop them, and replace scars,
with pen marks.
For scribbles on the skin,
are much less intrusive,
than the lines we make to last,
to try and remind ourselves,
that mistakes aren't permanent,
but the punishments are.
Just like a ****** scene.
The blood stains are gone,
but so are the people,
even though they never really walked away.

Life is a contradiction.
You roam the earth,
just to watch yourself and others,
slowly fade away,
you're left with what you started.
But memories will never fade.
you'll walk through life on tiptoes,
never fully able to let go.
Using your skin as your canvas,
and sharp objects as a paint brush
to create jagged lines in seas of red and white,
where you know you need no other color,
because red speaks the truth.
The truth in which cigarette smoke just couldn't bring,
because the smoke filters in the very same thing
which may very
well be killing him,
as we speak.
As lines are drawn and crossed,
you swear to a god that,
you hope will save him,
promising that you'll never touch the poison again,
if he could just spare the only good thing,
you have left,

And that's him.