Everything feels so out of reach right now.
I feel the pain from the snake sinking its fangs to my skin.
Puncturing and filling me with its poison.
It doesn't release enough to **** me, though it still leaves me paralyzed.
And some times I have to force myself to not taunt them.
They will know my motives and slither away until I'm better again.
Then the fangs will bite down on me as if they were eating a delicious apple.
and evening will come to fall for the sadistic trickery.
Thus leading to the eradication in which I had made my world to be.

I am powerless.

Please stop making it seem
Like I am incapable of pulling apart seams.
Strewn with strings of red stinging lies.
Ashes of bridges that I had to say goodbye.

Stop pretending that you'll be forever mine.
I'm still scared by last year's trauma that left me blind.
Stop trying to get close as I'm shoving you out the door.
I don't need you to come in, not while my heart is melting through the floor.

Just stop acting like I did a couple years ago.
You're going to get your heart quickly smashed, don't you know?
I speak from experience, so please stop holding on tight.
I might just turn into that April's night.

And you will regret it.
And I don't want to be responsible for a soul waiting to be ended.

Accidental paper cuts is where it starts.
You swiftly open your pink diary to write about the boy you fell in love with at recess.
It stings. Blood slowly drips. It stings. It’s so sudden and unwarranted.
You **** the blood and put a bandage on your finger and you write about your elementary school lover.

Drawn hearts around their names, or putting your first name in front of their last, it’s all your secrets.

They will never know.


You grow fast into middle school, where you encounter your first real heartbreak.
You once again swiftly open your pink diary out of heart broken tears falling from your eyes.
It stings. Blood slowly drips. It stings. It’s so sudden and unwarranted.
You **** the blood from your finger and put a bandage over your heart.

Scribble out the hearts, rip out his last name, cry silently into your pillow so no one can hear. Put on a mask in the morning until you are better. It’s all your secrets.

They will never know.


Fast forward to high school. Everyone is divided and different. People you once knew are once again memories. Lonesome days roaming hall ways. You tell yourself you’re used to it, but your mind thinks otherwise.
Once again, you swiftly open your pink diary to write about your boring day.
It stings. Blood slowly drips. It stings. It’s so sudden and unwarranted.
You **** the blood and put...
and p-...
and...
...
Put a razor against your skin.

Swiftly gliding it from left to right.
It stings. Blood slowly drips. It stings. It’s...

Amazing and exhilarating.

More. More. More.

Watch as I tear my arms into woven red spiderwebs.
Watch as I unravel this old bandage on my heart.
Watch as I show my vulnerability for just a moment.
I cant stop. I cant st op. The bleeding is n t stop ping.
I  c a n ' t  s t o-...
You put the razor down and look at the drips. you wash it off, throw away the bandages, put a sweater on and fall asleep. It's all your secrets.

They will never know.

It becomes a routine. Your pink diary begins to turn gray from dust. It doesn't help anymore. They put you on medications and therapy appointments, but you only get satisfaction opening your paper thin skin and watch as the lines well into pools of blood.

Drip.              
                 Drip.
   Drip.    

The sting in your arms is the only thing you can feel now. No one sees, it's all your secrets.

They will never know.

Never know...
What it's like to have this destructive addiction.
You see, I lied.
I knew the difference between paper cuts and razor blades when I was still learning long division.
It stopped being accidental after the first paper cut.
It began to be about glass shards on pale scrawny arms.
It began to be about long sleeves and pants instead of dresses.
It began to be about making excuses after excuses.

It's all my secrets.
They will never know.

... Never know until I cut one too many times.
Never know until my sleeves slide down my arms.
Never know until I puncture a vein.
Never know until I'm clinging onto lifeless pain.

It was all my secrets.
But eventually they knew.

They knew when pill bottles began to quickly empty.
They knew sweater weather was 6 months ago.
They knew the light in my eyes began to dim.
They knew I was suffering.

But I pushed them out.
Slammed the door and pulled down the sleeves.
Put on smiles and laugh like they do on TV.

Like an innocent child hiding paper cuts under bandages.
Growing into a ******* who finds solace in a razor.
Laughing at each tear that falls from my mother's face.
Door slams that just echo in my chest.
Digging more into my skin so I can just be put to rest.
This sweet, silent suffering is covered by a facade made of smiles.
But I still wince once in awhile.
It's just the cuts that rub against my inner side of my sleeves.

Reminding me of my dark thoughts.
Reminding myself of my weaknesses.
Reminding me of feeling something other than this numb orb,
that gnaws into every cell, ever nerve.
Up and down my arm until I feel the stinging static feeling.

Then I know it's time,
to start once again.
...
and...
It was all my secrets.
They weren't supposed to know.

I feel like the laughs and smiles rattle in my chest like my anti-depressants when I shake the bottle.

It feels so hollow and dark until I light up momentarily, and then it dies again.

The smiles and laughs are like bugs in a jar, you shake them and they move, but leaving them in too long kills them off.

I just can't understand why I cry feeling this pain but then inflict it upon myself when I can't feel anything at all.

I can't help but think how ****** up I am, taking pills, talking about my problems, slicing my arms until they drip with blood.

It's impossible for me to be happy when this hollow feeling lingers with my emotions as its prisoner.

Shaking itself, rattling them up to taunt them until they cry out.

I can't live in this false hope anymore.

There is no help for me, no happiness for me here.

They're just echoes that bounce off the walls in my chest.

No one can hear the loud pain beneath this numb body.

It's like screaming for help underneath water.

and happiness is the one keeping me under. It's

Pointless

Lies,

Egocentric

Abuse,

Silence

Eerie filled rooms full of avengeful ghosts. I can't help but feel,

Hateful

Erratic

Lament

Perplexed by these feelings that rattle in my ribcage.

Maybe this life isn't for me
Eternal emptiness that can not be fulfilled.

I want to scream until I convulse into a ****** rage of anger.
I can't believe what these figures tell me.
They shrug me off like an old rancid carpet of emotions.
They don't want my problems, but God forbid I ignore theirs and suddenly I'm the villain.
Not only do I have to keep limping as I carry the weights of myself, but I also have to carry one, no, two, no... five.
Five.
And everyone acts as if the Prozac has magically given me the HP boost to carry this on.
I ask for help when my sore body can't hold anymore.
I just feel like--
"IT'S YOUR FAULT I'M THIS WAY."
"YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO AGREE WITH ME ON EVERYTHING NO MATTER HOW BAD IT IS."
"YOU HAVEN'T HELPED ME AT ALL."
"PLEASE STROKE MY EGO MORE AS I PRETEND TO BE DEPRESSED LIKE YOU."
...Should I remind you of what I did for you?
How I tore my ligaments just so you can keep walking all over me?
How I forced to bite my tongue so hard that I began to ***** my own blood?
How I stayed through your ******* problems that had me rolling my eyes out of their sockets?
If only I can pretend to feel this **** as much as you do.
If only I could be a stone that you resemble to.
If only I could be so self-absorbing and privileged like you.
I wish I didn’t have to feel like this. I wish I wasn't starved of happiness that I rightfully deserve.
That I've actually worked for.
Unlike you.
Who was handed everything to them since birth.
Maybe that’s why you have the tendency to run away from your problems.
You’re scared.
You can’t grow up.
You think everyone will conform to your idealization of how a life is lived.
Because maybe that's what your parents wrongfully taught you.
You want to be the savior of those who are depressed.
You use their illness to your advantage to get some sick satisfaction off their pain.
And when they're left to tell you how wrong you are for that, you s--
"WELL HOW ELSE AM I SUPPOSED TO HELP?"
"IT'S NOT MY FAULT THEY'RE DEPRESSED."
"I TRIED TO HELP BY STATING THEY WERE FINE EVERY TIME."
"NOW PLEASE LET'S TALK ABOUT ME!"
... It's atrocious that one will pretend to be some God to a person that is losing their faith.
These sad, sick people will keep stroking your ego because they have nothing else, no one else, but you.
Or so you think.
And you know that. You will keep playing this stupid game called Life by using cheat codes on single player for your own self-indulgence.
You will keep acting like the hero for the distressed damsel waiting in the other castle.
And you will keep quitting the game in a rage when you're sidelined by other quests.
It truly is selfish and disgusting.
But what you may not know, is that the damsel in distress has her own strategy of escape.
She has had to survive this game called Life amplified to Hard Mode.
She knows the way of this unfair game, ghosted to seem like a helpless poor soul in need of salvation from some sort of cowardly knight.

But what you, or anyone doesn't know,
Is she is almost at the end credit screen.
Where there is a happily ever after,
Made possible, completely without you.