It has become customary to press a blade to the inside of my left wrist when she tells me I am worthless.
I ache for the blood to seep from my damaged skin, pumped through my body from my damaged heart.
I sit in silence and wait; for him to come in and comfort me, to show me care and compassion, but he doesn’t.
Not anymore.
It’s hours.
I made a plan in seventh grade that the anklet would stop the burn of silver.
Anklets break.
Promises break.
It all becomes okay.
After the death of my grandmother, the last time I thought I would do it, I found a red string.
Tied it around my ankle.
Promised myself I would never do it whilst it was on.
But bad days exist.
And so do scissors.
And everlasting stress that never leaves and an easy way to feel without feeling.
Blood bubbles when it seeps through the gaps in your skin.
And it hurts but what hurts more is the ache in your chest when she tells you
you're stupid
you don't respect me
you owe use
we own you
I want to hit you
change your attitude, girl
Watch out
Obey me
I AM YOUR MOTHER
as if mother, was a synonym for god.
Guilt and hurt and god how did I end up here again?
It's knowing the answer.
Its knowing blame is bad and modesty is good and pain is for the ones who love but love is for the ones who are free from pain.
It's having to keep silent because asking for support is like giving her another bullet
another thing to say
another reason to want to die
And when you pick your own crying body up off the floor, bruises from biting and pinching and hitting and clumps of hair and tissues of blood,
It's being alone.
Its the eerie silence that follows.
It's concealer on wrists. It's looking down to avoid eye contact. Its wishing someone would ******* notice.
it's structured loneliness.
it's the skills you had to learn all alone.
It's fighting for breath, not knowing whether to stop or breathe.
It's about helping others
before ever helping yourself
It's being called worthless at the bottom of bad days
It's your own problems magnified because you don't hide them well enough
It's hurting
and I want it to stop
I write as the blade is pressed to my wrist once again.
Nov 5, 2018
Nov 5, 2018 at 9:47 AM UTC
It has become customary to press a blade to the inside of my left wrist when she tells me I am worthless.
I ache for the blood to seep from my damaged skin, pumped through my body from my damaged heart.
I sit in silence and wait; for him to come in and comfort me, to show me care and compassion, but he doesn’t.
Not anymore.
It’s hours.
I made a plan in seventh grade that the anklet would stop the burn of silver.
Anklets break.
Promises break.
It all becomes okay.
After the death of my grandmother, the last time I thought I would do it, I found a red string.
Tied it around my ankle.
Promised myself I would never do it whilst it was on.
But bad days exist.
And so do scissors.
And everlasting stress that never leaves and an easy way to feel without feeling.
Blood bubbles when it seeps through the gaps in your skin.
And it hurts but what hurts more is the ache in your chest when she tells you
you're stupid
you don't respect me
you owe use
we own you
I want to hit you
change your attitude, girl
Watch out
Obey me
I AM YOUR MOTHER
as if mother, was a synonym for god.
Guilt and hurt and god how did I end up here again?
It's knowing the answer.
Its knowing blame is bad and modesty is good and pain is for the ones who love but love is for the ones who are free from pain.
It's having to keep silent because asking for support is like giving her another bullet
another thing to say
another reason to want to die
And when you pick your own crying body up off the floor, bruises from biting and pinching and hitting and clumps of hair and tissues of blood,
It's being alone.
Its the eerie silence that follows.
It's concealer on wrists. It's looking down to avoid eye contact. Its wishing someone would ******* notice.
it's structured loneliness.
it's the skills you had to learn all alone.
It's fighting for breath, not knowing whether to stop or breathe.
It's about helping others
before ever helping yourself
It's being called worthless at the bottom of bad days
It's your own problems magnified because you don't hide them well enough
It's hurting
and I want it to stop
I write as the blade is pressed to my wrist once again.
5.11.18
Request permission to use this poem