i got excited by the cut on my finger
and the bruise on my thigh
(got one from making art
the other from chasing fun)
i've always loved that sort of thing
proof that i'm moving and creating
people will learn things about me
just by looking
i hope that they'll take an interest
flip through my pages
hope that my title and front page
can get them to read the rest of my story
i want you to ask me how i got
i want so badly to tell a story
I was making prints for my art class and i kept falling over while learning how to rollerblade. Loved both things and wish I could do them more.
I'll accept greetings from the dark,
familiar to its horrors and charcoal designs.
On terrible nights, I'll let the endless stars rock me to sleep-
allowing the cold to sting and bruise.
Yet the chilling darkness,
was the only warmth I could feel,
the only hurt I didn't mind.
I am a beautiful imperfection
I am an unfinished work of art
I am flawed and bruised beyond recognition
So many ugly scars covers my heart.
hard enough, ceases
to be just that:
The sensation of
pain sometimes seems awfully
pleasant to my bones
A sting makes my life
bend in beautiful
I sip it
like a lollipop
It's like the
grate of yearning
is more pleasant than
Different styles in different ways, same old cold friend: pain.
(I'm not talking about cutting or physical abuse, but if you are here for either... I see you, little dove. <3)
She stretched her sleeves to cover them.
The knife cut deep on her scarred thighs.
I said I didn't mind that she hurt
Herself. Still, the hand covered the bruise.
She ate little. The mirror scoffed
Still. "Fine!" I'd say. "I'll eat alone."
I said I didn't mind that she starved
herself. Still, the hand covered the bruise.
I wish I pulled her hand.
I wish I didn't just speak.
Lately I can't eat too.
My hand covers the bruise.
skin left sore and damage.
Your purple flesh leaves marks that signify hate within others.
Pain left from fathers and mothers, sister and brothers, friends or foe.
I believe the skeletons I hide, have more guts than I do.
Being pushed around and abused by those close to me without fighting back.
But I know I would rather take a thousand cuts before giving one.
I may seem so well put together from the outside, but I know on the inside I have been torn apart.
This is part of a project I am doing called the colour wheel. It is a draft piece and isn't very organized right now. I would love feedback moving forward with it.
will have you believe
that damage can be beautiful,
and it's true
that you can find
the sunlight through the clouds.
But my trauma is not pretty.
It is an ugly bruise
that everyone thinks is okay
to poke at,
and watch the black and blue
attempt to change colours
when it heals.
There is no beauty
in crying alone at 3am,
spilling alcohol down your shirt
at a party you're only attending
to drown your issues in,
swallowing tiny little pills
to feel somewhat okay,
avoiding any comfort
because you feel you deserve less.
It is a lonely place to be,
stuck in a broken mind
with one-way windows.
I can romanticise my pain
as much as i want,
but it will always be
a toxic relationship
i have with myself.
And it is not beautiful.
She’s under my skin
like a bruise that’s
unwilling to heal
left me trembling
pierced my bones
scarred my soul
when my heart
ached to be hers
that Gigantes face
so engulfed in clouds of euphoria
teeth melt and mould
against my delirious musings
that sweat of shame
and remoulded nausea
dissipating sand of
rapacious time bruisings
make me into your perfect girl,
molded hips and perfect, full lips
top me off with a pearl
in a pretty dress of coral
i’ll do whatever you tell me to,
or i’ll end up black and blue
bruises painted like a pretty mural,
makeup painted a perfect hue
i don’t need help,
but he needs me.
and i’ll stay by his side
until he no longer sees me
FICTIONAL BUT BASED OFF OF FRIEND'S STORIES
For: Jay Randall, Huxley Densen, Sigrid Mathisen, Coty Abrams