Hello my blade
    My age-old friend
You've been with me
     Through thick and thin
And now I've come
     But once again
To use you now
     Once more to sin.

My life in shambles lays ahead
Behind, a falsehood, love is dead
No options, I agree, remain
So though I have, my best, 'till now refrained
I seek the bitting edge once, evermore
To ease the pain which ever-beats its sore

And as I open flesh-ed wounds to scar
So my soul numbs, heart as black as tar
The pain, it blessed, ebbs away quickly
And I can breathe again, rattling, sickly

No cure for panic, loss, and crippling pain
Have I found, but blood, which falls like rain
Not of a Savior, Christ within
But of the broken drowned in sin

So my life just went to shit-hell, where even the shittiest of hells become reality. Forced to love, and then stripped of all things good in life.

No stranger, yet, suicide has never sounded so nice. Anything to avoid. Anything.
Cynthia Ulloa May 24

It was nothing but a blur
Amidst the insecurities of life
Hasty decisions
Jumping into conclusions
Hiding blemishes
Closing gaps
In between
Broken roads
Perfectioning one another's flaws
Letting go
Only one thing held it all together
The rope cut lose
No longer holding by a thread
Falling down
Way down the road
In to the deepest signs of betryal
Soaked
in confusion and despair
Finding
strength to be cleanse once again
In a land
that is drastically dry
from lack of conviction and repentance
dying to the world instead of the word.

This may not make sense but one must put the pieces together ;)
claire Jun 9

i. the 1st week is the rapid hemostasis. the fabric of your body clutching itself together, rushing to staunch the bleeding. you breathe and oxygen settles in your chest like needles. you are so tired. you, in your continent of pain, will never be enough of anything for anyone. you burn softly as your cells scuttle to repair the damage. you burn in silence.

ii. the 2nd week is the inflammation. the itching and swelling of flesh. the fingers you move over your own body, holding your hips quiet. your gash is no longer a gash, but a rumpled and puffy city, a strange piece of art, a crime scene after the police have left where everyone is sweeping up shattered glass. someone’s murmuring a poem of soul and death over the radio. it might be you. everyone is shouting and the radio is getting louder and the crime scene is turning into an emergency room and the doctors are flying around in their yellow haste and there is no oasis, no peace, no open window, until the automatic hospital doors part with a groan and she is there, and you realize you are about to be saved.

iii. the 3rd week is the proliferation and migration. she tells you to remove the gravel from your body before you grow a new skin. so you do, you pull it out with black tweezers and it makes you scream until you are raw and humble. you watch as you mend yourself, sped up, like a tiger lily caught on long-form camera, bursting to life. someone says the words love and breaking and heal. someone says i will take you and i will carry you. is it you or her? does it matter? your skin is rearranging itself. you are pangea, splitting and reattaching to new places. it should be violent, but it isn’t. she’s calling you in from the cold and you go to her, scabbed up and scabbed over, unable to close your eyes. she takes up your whole field of vision. her lips, her nose. her irises, where you find god and every angel. the only sin here is the distance between the two of you. which you are closing. by the minute. by the second. by the breath.

iv. the 4th week is the angiogenesis. the development of new veins and ligaments. the deeply complicated process of creating new paths for blood to flow. the beating of your heart when she rests her hand on your knee and leaves it there. your tectonic feelings. the way you look for her in a crowd. the sudden daylight.

v. the 5th week is the  reepithelialization. a big, funny word that sends heat all through you. it asks questions. like: when you broke, did you know you would stop bleeding? when you lay prone in a pool of your own carnage, did you know that Good And Beautiful still belonged to you? that even in that crushing agony, she would come to you, and, with her seamstress hands and surgeon heart, put you back together? did you know that the light was never out of reach? that the walls around you were cardboard, not cement? that she would destroy them gently, then draw you from the wreckage? and still see you whole, even with all your throbbing fissures, the parts of you that just can’t add up? did you?

vi. the 6th week is the synthesis. your wound has gone. it’s a tuesday and you are watching her walk to class. it’s dizzying, the way she moves, the way she walks. she doesn’t know you’re there and you would like to keep it that way, because you are a naturalist observing something rare and exquisite, and you do not want to scare her away. she’s the white-hot sphere of the sun in the sky, and with your woundless self, you take her in. you can feel it, when you look at her—the spin of the earth / clouds sliding into other hemispheres / the swarm of your blood cells and pathogens / the aging of trees / airplane turbulence / earthquakes in places you will never see / lava cooling in the ocean / the rings we grow on our hearts—you can feel all of it. she’s turning the corner now, hair ignited. you are in love with her and you don’t want her to be late. she is so beautiful, even though you can’t see her anymore. she’s the last of her kind.

I relapsed
it happened so fast
and now there's blood on my favorite hoodie
and I don't know why I'm so sad
I fucking relapsed
and my best friend hugged me silently because she saw the scars on my arm
she didn't say a word because she thinks it's not her place
but all I want to do is cry or scream in someone's face
and now I'm looking at my arm just before I fall asleep
and I keep thinking to myself

that looks really bad
that looks really bad
that looks really bad

it feels like no one understands me
I have nowhere to run
I've started pushing people out
I've started denying any fun
this is getting scary
how did this come on?
I relapsed, baby
really quick and really much
there's some blood drops on the floor
but if ever someone asks
I will say

Well, I don't know where it came from
but that looks really bad
that looks really bad
that looks really bad

I'm hurting so fucking bad right now... Just a week ago I was fine... And now I have too many scars on my arm to count and I'm always sad and I don't know why. My mind is screaming for help but my tongue refuses to ask
Cherisse May May 30

I'm sorry
For breaking my promise
Of not hurting myself
Ever again.

I'm so sorry
For being the blade
That cuts through
Myself, bleeding, thoughts whispering

I'm so sorry
For not being
The perfect person
You've always wanted.

And I'm sorry
For existing
If all you ever wanted
Was for me to vanish in the first place.

Kee May 23

How long should I sit here and pretend that I haven't wanted to end it for 17 years?
How long should I say 'I'm good' when I was just crying the bathroom ten minutes ago?
How long should I stare in the mirror and say 'Maybe I'll cut my hair tomorrow' knowing deep down I won't go for the next six months.
How long should I avoid the inevitable?
How long is too long?
How long can I look at this world, this society, and think that this is the type of world I want to live in?

Silver and white,

free me from this chaos
that dims my light.


Silver and white,

punish this girl
who can't seem to do any right.


Silver and white,

take me away
to the dead of night.

skye May 11

you only pay attention to the blood.
when i'm splattered on the ground
and my bones are in pieces
sitting in my open flesh
maybe that's because you only see in black and white
you don't see red very often
and the red is what catches your eye
so sometimes
i let myself bleed
so that you can see me again
and wrap me in your gauzy words
and kiss my boo boos
until i'm grey again
and you can't see me.

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