every sad thought the girl contained,
she took it out on herself
trying to find some "painkiller"
she turned to self harm
and never looked back



l.c.b.

Self harm,
Self harm isn't just cutting,
Self harm,
Self harm isn't just you hate yourself,
Self harm,
Self harm isn't just starving,
Self harm,
Self harm isn't just burning,
Self harm,  
Self harm isn't just beating,
Self harm,
Self harm isn't always your fault,
Self harm,
Self harm isn't always there fault,
Self harm,
Self harm doesn't always lead to suicide,
Self harm,
Self harm isn't something proud,
Self harm,
Self harm isn't just because you have depression,
Self harm,  
Self harm isn't just because you have anxiety,
Self harm,
Self harm isn't just because you take medicine,
Self harm,
Self harm isn't just because you have pain,
Self harm,
Self harm isn't something to brag about,
Self harm,
Self harm is not something to do for attention,
Self harm,
Self harm isn't just purging,
Self harm,
Don't harm it's addictive...

It is so real to me.
I see it's harmless name everywhere, and it looks so innocent off of the context of your skin.
It haunts me where ever it is or whatever state it is in, and it is so shadowed to me.
But also extremely real, and vivid.
So chilling, but it also sets me to fire.
I see other harmless names and I am foreign to the lands of those graves.
I am glad, but I hate that this stands out to me.
I am walking the path of the graveyard, and will I fall in to my likely grave?
Or will I break off onto the swept path?
I will not know, but I am passing the graves of others who have succumb to the rough grips of these names.
And on these graves there are things written, telling what pushed and buried them in these graves.
And I see many empty graves and blank headstones ahead.
I know that mine may be waiting for me, and self harm is pushing me along the path to it.
Still, I am pushing back and I will ***** the swept path with my muddy feet.
And once I am there I will run far away and never let myself be pushed again.
I will not be buried in the dirt of self harm.

Poetry is a disease
Words sit in your gut like rotten meat
You hold onto your stomach for dear life
'Cos it's full of knives
There's no choice but to stick your pen down your throat
And bring it all up

Yeah, poets can't tie knots
And they don't own a pistol

And all that venom just stifles and stinks

But you can close the book
And close your eyes
Ready to hate yourself tomorrow

when the urge is too strong
and my head is muddled with thoughts and crazieness
I dive into the toilet
the eye of the storm, the only calm
And after, sing myself to bed
with my raw throat and ****** teeth
and lie in a fitful sleep
choking on waves of guilt and *****

knuckles rubbed raw by
teeth so sharp and blunt
a tongue rough and silent

violent retching
self-harm for a throat
already held by a noose

she promises
just

one more cookie
one last bite
one last calorie
one last breath
one

the toilet bowl is her best friend
and she hugs it close
when no one can hear

Dreaming of walking model thin
Unaware she's bones and skin

She lives in a damaged brain
Drowned from her vomiting pain

Her insecurity torn up her mind
Left her bulimic and mentally blind

Always hugging her toilet beside
Half dead from purging her soul inside

Crying because her ugly reflection
She won't give up until she's perfection