An electric blue hand
reaches out to him
from across an ocean
of thick water as Luna
undresses for all to see.

He doesn't hesitate
to embrace this stranger
from a strange land.

This dark and violent ocean
between their mouths,
with it's terrible secrets and
crushing indifference,
is no match for the
smell of her ink
on her paper
in his hands.

Cicadas creating a cacophony,
emerald leaves gracing limbs
centuries old; the park is alive.

Neighbors walking dogs, rumbling
home after a long work week, a lively game of tennis is being played across the way.

I should feel...
good
happy
content
calm
something

The moon will always rise
The sun will always set
Life is full of mass regret
Redundant

The rain continues to pound
The leaves always wither
There's never anyone around
Repetitious

The clouds float by
The breeze gently cools
Another day, another cry
Repetitive

The flowers bloom
The torrents flow
Yet narcissistically consumed
Over and over and over

Stop cutting.

I get it, life hurts.

You want to feel, something.

You would rather watch your own blood seep out of your body from a self inflicted wound, than experience the hurt you have inside.

I get it. Stop cutting.

You choose to hurt yourself because you are overwhelmed by the pain you have caused another person, even if it was unintentional. The thought of that person whom you have such strong feelings for, suffering because of your actions or in-actions, is almost unbearable.

I get it. Stop cutting.

You don't know what to make of your situation. You don't know how a person like you could end up in such a ****** up scene. You feel stuck, lost.

I get it. I do.
Stop cutting.

Your parents ****. They don't understand the kind of **** you are going through. Sure they were kids once but that was different. Things were different back then. They don't get you and they probably never will. They don't care.

I get it. Stop cutting.

You really want to hurt yourself because you get off on the pain. You want it. You need it. You deserve it. You were put on this earth to suffer and you accept your role as martyr.

I get it. Truly, I do.
Stop cutting.

You need some sort of release. Something, anything. Anything but the consuming black,
nothing. The sweet release that only a razor can provide is the only thing that seems real to you amidst all of the drama.

I get it.
Stop cutting.



There is chaos in your life and the secret solitude provided by your ritual seems like an oasis.

I get it. Stop cutting.

You like the way your skin splits open.  You like the way you can touch the cuts underneath your clothes. You like the way the scars remind you.

I get it.
Stop cutting.

The love of your life has abandoned you, leaving a void that nobody will ever fill. Ever.
You are completely and utterly alone.

Life *****.

I get it.

You however, are beautiful,
inside and out,
scars and everything,
and you are not as alone as you think.


Please,
Please,
Please,
Stop cutting.

"Write what you know."

I want to write about
beautiful things,
but I only know
ugly.
Ugly hearts and stone blood.

Fetid loyalty.

I want to write about a love as pure as honey,
but all I know are the poison-tipped thorns of betrayal.

If I could put the right words
in the right order
at the right time
and explain what it means to lose you,
nobody would care.

I'd like to write about
my happy family,
laugh filled birthdays
and joyous gatherings,
but I only know
fractious,
secretive,
*******.

I want to touch another soul
make a connection with my words
share a part of my self
and help someone in the process,
but all I have been taught is
taking
keeping
lying
hiding
running
ruining.

I would love to write
like Pablo,
of wheat
and bread
and fields that don't weep,

but all I know are
desperate fumblings
in ******,
beer soaked bathrooms,
back alley
drunken
*******
by black
barely passable trannys,
diseases and
barely consensual bloodstains.

I cannot speak of such things.
It's bad enough I think about them,
even worse I write about them.

I write what I know.