I was always taught to cry in private,
As if emotions were some kind of sin.
"No one likes a hysterical woman",
Or at least that's what I was told.
So I tie up my emotions and feelings,
And tuck them away neatly within my heart.
Throughout the day I feel them trying to break free,
To be let loose, to be felt.
But I refuse to let them break through my composure,
So I push them down further, and further, and further,
Until all I can feel is an empty hollowness in the middle of my chest.
"Much better,
Keep smiling,
Act normal,
You're happy."

Your cleavage is the sum
of everything you want to be:
on show and constantly talked about,
but when you have loaded words in
a shotgun mouth, spewing out
miscellaneous shells to the nobodies
of your street, then you’ll
fail to become that gap between your *******.

Keep quiet and remain dressed;
having numbers next to friends
is a contest you win at,
but count on your hands the mouths
that like you, and you’ll realise you’re
alone.

people tell me that i gain from pain
some kind of desire from torture
whether from bite marks
which make me bleed
or from a lover
that dominates
when in bed

part of me can't function
without some kind of release
that only pain seems to fulfill

i guess i have a masochistic personality
a need to feel what i can't usually

i struggled with self inflicted hurt too
when nothing else was available to me
created marks and scars to fill my heart
with increased satisfaction
i am the canvas
which is my art
my body tells
a thousand
little tales
of a girl
lost in
confusion

makes me feel so alive
the memories carved
and painted on