Jan 2018
I've seen things I've liked, but at the same time hated.
Looked up support groups online on how to stop, but was to young to join.
I've been to embarrassed to ask for help, because everyone I told said it was normal, that it's just life.
But to me this was a pistol that I was constantly waving around with out a safety button.
If it goes off let's hope it shoots me and not a first responder.
But that pistol will never do as much damage to me as what I did with my own hands.
Because every test I did on myself was an exploration of an unknown island never seen by man.
But now it's polluted by sewage run off from small businesses that I owned. Deforested groves of innocence, and shattered hopes and dreams.
How dare I pick the only daisy from myself and say to enjoy the show as I cut it up and stomp on it over and over. Each time taking a different petal.
Now I'm here picking up the pieces, but it keeps on insisting on temptation, keeps hinting that hands are made for grasping, telling me that hands are for broken hearts that need to become whole.
How stupid was I.
I believed every lie that screen fed me.
Every hint it dropped of things that were scripted that that they made look real.
That every person that was there was just being normal and happy, and if you explore what is underneath just like them you'll be happy.
But I'm not happy.
I'm ashamed.
This is not normal, this is not for our age.
This is not happiness.
This is not how to fix a broken heart.
This is not how I want to be remembered
This is not what I want my children to see.
This is not how I want to live.
Most of all,
This is never going to happen again.
If I have to gouge out my eyes and chop off my hands, or shatter battery operated glass, I will over and over and over again.
So that next time I look in the mirror and I brush a hair out of my face,
I won't see my fingers and think of disgust. Next time I see my hands I don't want to see lust.
Next time I see these fingers I don't want to think of past. I want to think of now.
Next time I see my fingers I will think of how to pluck a guitar sting. Next time I look at my hands I'll remember how to tie a shoelace. Next time I look at these fingers I want to see something that was once coved in moss and weeds, but now has come out of the dark to lead a clean and triumphant life.
Yes this world is full of temptation and hunger, but our hands our not the food we need. So please no more hands for me.
Looked up support groups online on how to stop, but was to young to join.
I've been to embarrassed to ask for help, because everyone I told said it was normal, that it's just life.
But to me this was a pistol that I was constantly waving around with out a safety button.
If it goes off let's hope it shoots me and not a first responder.
But that pistol will never do as much damage to me as what I did with my own hands.
Because every test I did on myself was an exploration of an unknown island never seen by man.
But now it's polluted by sewage run off from small businesses that I owned. Deforested groves of innocence, and shattered hopes and dreams.
How dare I pick the only daisy from myself and say to enjoy the show as I cut it up and stomp on it over and over. Each time taking a different petal.
Now I'm here picking up the pieces, but it keeps on insisting on temptation, keeps hinting that hands are made for grasping, telling me that hands are for broken hearts that need to become whole.
How stupid was I.
I believed every lie that screen fed me.
Every hint it dropped of things that were scripted that that they made look real.
That every person that was there was just being normal and happy, and if you explore what is underneath just like them you'll be happy.
But I'm not happy.
I'm ashamed.
This is not normal, this is not for our age.
This is not happiness.
This is not how to fix a broken heart.
This is not how I want to be remembered
This is not what I want my children to see.
This is not how I want to live.
Most of all,
This is never going to happen again.
If I have to gouge out my eyes and chop off my hands, or shatter battery operated glass, I will over and over and over again.
So that next time I look in the mirror and I brush a hair out of my face,
I won't see my fingers and think of disgust. Next time I see my hands I don't want to see lust.
Next time I see these fingers I don't want to think of past. I want to think of now.
Next time I see my fingers I will think of how to pluck a guitar sting. Next time I look at my hands I'll remember how to tie a shoelace. Next time I look at these fingers I want to see something that was once coved in moss and weeds, but now has come out of the dark to lead a clean and triumphant life.
Yes this world is full of temptation and hunger, but our hands our not the food we need. So please no more hands for me.
