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 Sep 2018 nooneknoes
Nexus
Isn't it funny how his blood smells like his blade.
It must be the metal, quantum level the same.
Every possibility in time lead to this line.
A faceless man writing this rhyme.
In a world so messed up he thinks it's his fault.
Turning to drugs, he lost all his hope.
And now sits alone worrying how to cope.
Can't stop smoking dope.
He never visioned he'd be happy,
And it shows.
-Nexus
 Sep 2018 nooneknoes
yellow soul
I cut myself with a sharp knife
It wasn’t on purpose I swear
I feel the pain  
I Think I fainted
Never have I ever seen this much blood before
It was all over the bathroom floor
One sick thought I got
“collect my blood In a little jar”
And that I did
But then I got to think
I realized It was sick
I washed the blood of the jar
And called my mom saying
That I dropped the knife on my foot
Wasn’t on purpose nur so good
I waited for her to come home

my blood on our bathroom floor
 Sep 2018 nooneknoes
sammy
i sit with my legs uncrossing on the toilet seat, 7th period
smells of puberty
of wasted ambition and scathing regret of everything
of whispered secrets and sore thighs, ***** dripping out between your lips into the bowl
of tortured angst, of pulling your skin taut and drawing the blade against you over and over, for trusting someone like him
of hope that the next day will be better than today (it isn't)
of high school.
written in 2018
 Sep 2018 nooneknoes
D
Note to Self
 Sep 2018 nooneknoes
D
I wrote a note today, how I felt. I was finally honest, even if only with a piece of paper. I loved that note, the comfort it gave me. It didn't cry or shame when it heard my pain. But like scars, it was visible. It could be seen. So I had to shred my honesty, piece by piece to make sure no eyes would see my insides. My words were not for anyone but myself. The graphite on my fingers is easier hidden than the blood on my skin. So tonight I wash my hands, so I can write again tomorrow.
 Sep 2018 nooneknoes
Nobody
Bleed
 Sep 2018 nooneknoes
Nobody
That appalling desire,
makes your heart beat so fast.
It’s an unsettling ritual,
which refuses to pass.
  The nagging need
   to feel something,
and make yourself bleed.
You must act and do it now,
you wait for the great release.
One slice turns into more,
and you need it to hurt.
No one must notice,
hence the morbid allure.
You can’t stop the impulse,
once the fuse is lit.
You tremble with sickly delight,
after every slit.
For now you’re done,
carving your skin.
Since the need seems gone,
even though it doesn’t last long.
But at least in those moments,
you feel that sweet song.
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