I look down at my arms
All I see is scars
A mistake I made
When Nightmares wouldn't pass

That's my self-critic
He's called Nightmare
And he says that I'm worthless
Whispering to me **** that ain't fair

And sometimes I can't help it
I listen
And I watch the blood flow
In the dull light it glistens

And I see it, picture it
Before it even happens
Then I grab up my razor or knife
And all I feel is nothing

Blood flows,
Time slows
And in my rage
I let Nightmare be my boss

I go to work
So mad, furious and bezerk
Spiralling me, turning me
Into the Nightmare that is me

A part that I hate
He's so ******* ******* this
This soul that only wanted to
Make others smile by pulling the ****

Light the torches.
Burn it to the ground.
Let the flames dance until the ashes flee this plot of land upon the back of the wind.
This patriarchal house that father built has been stained with the blood of past victims.
The blood of enemies dots the floor while whats left of friends streaks the walls, marking the spot where they leaned for one last moment of respite prior to life escaping them.
We stand here with the warm blood dripping from our hanging fingertips.
Clothing streaked red.
Clearly we all had a part to play.
Whether part of the execution or part of the clean up, we all took part in the slaughter.
Fathers swung blades.
Mothers bandaged the wounded so they may **** again.
Children carried the buckets of blood to be disposed of.
Yet no one wept.
Not a tear was shed in the name of this great nation.
No one wailed during the systematic destruction of our resources.

Roads are crumbling.
Water is poisoned.
Politics are a circus.
The police have become a military force.
And lives have been destroyed.
Fathers are still wielding the blade
While mothers take up the blood buckets of their children who have been slain.
When does it end?
Does it end when we run out of weapons?
When we run out of people?
When we run out of love?
Weapons are only an extention of the wielder.
The bomb unbuilt cannot explode.
Our mother's words should be ringing in all of our ears.
Be good.
Treat people right.
Love.
Instead we jam fingers in ears, scream and stamp feet until even our thoughts are nothing but static.
The hiss and squeal of gunshots and speeding tires continually drown out the sounds of children's laughter and those Marvin Gaye records that Mrs. Jenkins plays on Sunday nights.
This isn't just a story of the inner city blues.
The suburban warriors are also witness to the carnage.
It's time to stay the blade.
Allow mothers to mourn.
And children to play.
Peace is a choice.
Choose wisely.

"What are you doing?" She asked with a hint of fear.
When she saw me,
all alone,
on my bed,
with tears in my eyes.

"Are you okay?" "Do you need a doctor?" She asked,
as the blood dripped down my arm,
and onto my white towel,
staining it red.

My bony thighs with the words,
'fat' engraved onto my skin.
My ribs were poking out of my stomach,
I haven't eaten in days.

"Can't you see,
see what you have done to me!" I yelled.
One move and I'll be gone-
I began to shake,
more like shivering.

Shivering from fear,
shivering from coldness,
hitting my tiny fragile bones.
One move and I'll be gone-

I push my mother out of my room,
and latch the door.
She is pounding,
pounding harder and harder,
screaming for me to let her in,
as she sobs and sobs.

Everything goes silent,
my thoughts begin to race,
and all I can hear is the beating of my heart.
I take the blade in one hand,
with a handful of pills in the other
One move and I'll be gone-

Slowly I press down,
harder and harder,
and the blood starts to pour out.
I swallow the pills,
and soon fall into a deep deep sleep.
Never to feel the pain,
ever again.

One move and I was gone.
All from a fight.
My mom finally gets the door open,
and falls to her knees.

Nothing will ever ever take back,
what she just saw.
Her daughter just laying there.
Still-
lifeless-

Rattling of a pill bottle fill the silence
And I don't realize how desperately
I long for anything but the silence
Until it's gone.

What is wrong with me?
I'm holding on to how things used to be
Because letting go has never been my thing
But I think it's time,
And I'm scared
Letting go means finding more to fill that,
Silence
And I'm not sure I can.
I'm not sure I can...
What is wrong with me?

Barely a week clean
And I'm already craving
When can I stop this **** self hatred,
And learn to love myself?
As opposed to harming myself.
What is wrong with me?

Why do I always jump to feelings of anger, sadness, and irritability?
Why do I long for physical pain so intensely?
Why do my thoughts of self loathing present so vividly?
What is wrong with me?

I'm a tragedy, really.
A piece of artwork, pulled apart at the seams
A kind heart that's torn up, scratched and bleeding
But you could never tell, for looks are deceiving
What is wrong with me?

I have help.
I know people care.
But the last person also told me they'd always be there,
And where the **** are they now, definitely not here
And I know not everyone's the same,
But it's one of my biggest fears
What is wrong with me?

I long for the day
Tears spill from my eyes
My heart's ripped into pieces, and I'm feeling betrayed
But the last thing I wanna do is reach for the blade
Because I'll be stronger than that.

But letting go has never been my thing.
So I'm stuck holding on to how I used to think


*What the hell is wrong with me?

I've never been good at coloring in between the lines.

Because I leave no space in between these lines that are made,

When the blade molests my skin.