"everything bad that has happened to me is affiliated with the very slice of cloud i sleep on. i tried to make a home of it but it turned into the cage that trapped my demons. and when i met you i tried to make a home in the loops of the words you wrote to me. you made my bones feel like they could finally support me.
but you took one swing and shattered all the work i had done."

"you just dont get it do you.
cutting is not a way of getting you to look at the pretty picture we made in school. its not for you. and if you think it is then you need to turn around look in the mirror and bite your tongue so hard you bleed.
self mutilation is not a hobby we do on sunday's with our old war buddies. we dont put on our 10 year old jeans and favorite t shirt and have at it with our bodies. no.
its an addiction. some people are addicted to the things that make them horrible. smokers like the feel
of the polluted air filling their lungs. maybe it gives them a break from the chemical that usually inflates them. you.
or maybe like how alcoholics like the way the whiskey makes them feel warm. maybe it's because you have a way of making them feel so cold and lonely that a waterford glass of their best friend is all they have at night while you sit at home reading, unaware to their suffering.
or maybe like how druggies like the way the chemical compounds feel in their hearts and legs and spines. maybe the "substance of the courageous" acts as a temporary cocktail in their blood that makes their bones feel less heavy and unbearable. like maybe they could withstand the worlds pressures for just one more day.
or maybe like how gamblers like the risk. they like the adrenaline of new cards beneath their greedy little fingers. they like being sweaty and on edge. maybe the thrill of a black queen is all the excitement they have ever felt in 6 and a half years. i wonder why, maybe because you **** the rush out of life.
go get them some flowers or maybe a new pair of socks. be spontaneous.
but us, we're addicted to something that makes us feel okay enough to go out into the world and talk. exchange words with you. it makes us feel like the constant buzz of rage or pain or anxiety or self loathe or abuse that constantly runs through our veins freeze. for just a little while. cutting is a release of chemicals in our brains that give us a way to stop the earth from revolving for only a small amount of bargained time. and those seconds that we grant ourselves are all we need get through our desolate days filled with dismal ******* that make us hurt so deeply we don't know any other way to cope. cutting is our escape much like the escape you manage. maybe a morning drink or those two minutes you spend alone outside.
if you take away our escape, we'll be trapped. and when we're trapped we'll panic and look for a new more severe way to cope.
and you wouldn't want that now would you."

"my chest fluttered like a rose or a daisy and i think my lungs are full of those works of life because i can breathe now and you told me i was your goddess and i looked up at the stars and whispered a thank you to the heavens for giving me you and i think i have flowers growing in my lungs and i'm not imagining whether or not to have melted candles or cold lilys at my funeral anymore i'm imagining how my life will be like when the patches of "accidents" and "it's nothing's" clear away and leave me clean and i dont think i'm sad anymore because there are flowers in my lungs and i'm pretty sure you're the seed."

"my heart no longer remains in your clutches, it belongs on paper in peoples pockets or at the bottom of their backpacks or even under a dresser, but it no longer remains with you. so i'll draw my heart on paper and give it away to people who'll one day find it and smile. i guess it's easier to have an ink heart rather than one that belongs to you."

"(maybe we're broken, who cares. we wouldn't be broken if they had cared. maybe we can save ourselves.) when the things we feel are too raw and too painfully real for us to comprehend, when our thoughts pulse against our bodies with exceedingly greater strength and when they leave patches of dark galaxies sculpted into our damaged bodies, that's when, when we think, "i will fix myself" it's the only string of words we repeat in our heads when we're holding stained glass to our stained bodies and slamming our heads against the walls of our confined consciousnesses. "i will fix myself" is what we repeat in our heads when we're shattered on the bathroom floor shaking to the beat of someone else's heart. yes, we're broken, yes we can save ourselves. but we don't need your useless words being whispered into our already cracked skulls and slipping into our scarred hearts. we will save ourselves."