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once you dig the razor in too deep
you know youve crossed a line
in more ways than one

physically;
youve cut deeper than
you ever have before

and then
mentally;
you cannot go back now
  May 15 one of you
lizie
neat red lines
stacked in a column
on my upper thigh.
i remember how you
flinched
when you saw them.
it’s disgusting
but it’s me.
one of you May 15
when I talk don't just listen
hear me dive into the weaving thoughts of my brain
search in your heart for an understanding if you can
strive for communication
and say what's on your mind
but when you do respect what is mine
don't yell or stonewall
I respect you so please respect me
this wasn't an argument and never had to be
  May 12 one of you
lizie
it’s the kind of sad
that doesn’t cry loud.
it just sits,
quietly,
in the corners of the room,
curling into the shadows
until even the light
feels heavy.

the kind of sad
where you can’t tell
if you’re tired
or just empty.
if you’re lonely
or just lost.
where music doesn’t help,
but silence hurts more.

it’s the kind of sad
that doesn’t need a reason.
just wakes up with you,
sits beside you on the train,
follows you into class,
and climbs into your bed
before you can even
close your eyes.

it’s the kind of sad
where you drive in the car
and you think you’re okay
until you hear the music
and burst out into tears.
for no reason.

and you want to talk about it.
but what do you say?
“i’m sad,”
like it’s news?
like it hasn’t made
a home in your bones already?
like it hasn’t decorated
your ribs
with every memory
you swore you were over?

it’s the kind of sad
that makes you ache
for people who aren’t coming back,
for versions of yourself
you barely remember.
for a feeling that used to be yours
before everything got
so heavy.

but still,
somehow,
you keep going.
even when it hurts.
especially when it hurts.
and that matters,
even if no one sees it,
though you wish someone would.
  May 12 one of you
Liana
Telling myself

I am not my father
I am not my father
I am not my father
I am not my father

I am not the sound of my cry that sounds so similar to his
But every soul I touched

I am not my eyes that looked devastatingly like the ones he sees the world in his twisted ways through
I am every hug I've given

I am not all the disorders he passed on to me because he passed them on to me
Every scar that's mine is mine because I made it

I am not the nose that I took from him and see everytime I look at myself
I am every year I shed

I am not the slight accent he gave me
Or the curly hair I'm somewhat known for
I am every world I made even the slightest bit better

My genes cannot boss me around
I am not my father
I am not my father
Anything but my father
Please
I wrote this during science, I did no schoolwork during class today. The words were claustrophobic.
  May 12 one of you
Emery Feine
i am so tired of being yelled at
im tired of the screaming
im tired of the lying
im tired of the whining

i am in a black hole
and you take more and more
and you bend the sound
and you take my time
you have taken the one thing i cannot bring back
one of you Apr 24
I'm sorry to the people I love
that they deal with my choices
I'm sorry to my babies
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