your hands are etched
with tiny dry lines
that cut
each one-way road to nowhere.

i'm going to tell you a story
about the girl who carved novels
into her wrists
because she struggled to find
the right words to say.
she would often find herself choking
on misplaced syllables
and unexpected vowels.
you see,
the lump in her throat
is all the words she'd wished she'd said
trying to claw their way out of her.
the lump in her throat isn't a can't,
it's a won't.
so when you ask her why she doesn't speak
it's not because she lacks the ability
to form rational thoughts
and coherent sentences.
it is because she finds no struggle in her silence.
and when you ask her what's wrong,
she'll say nothing.
but if you're lucky,
she might roll up her sleeves
revealing what had been known
only to her.
and maybe you won't know what to say
and that's alright.
but don't just tell her to stop.
that's like telling someone
not to jump
when their toes are already curled around the ledge.
instead, acknowledge that what she's feeling is real
and be her voice when she can't find the words.
j.c.

She calls them her battle scars;
Across her thighs and wrists are her beautiful memoirs.

They are cursive curly,
Chicken scratched,
And illegible.
Impossible for the world to read.

They are her greatest secrets--
She wouldn't dare tell a soul.

She cries in the night,
Slowly rocking herself.
Her pillow is damp with memories flooding back.

She screams in agony;
How could she ever forget?

Her battle is still waging,
Her wounds grow each day,
No matter how many silent prayers she prays.

The scars are torn open,
Ripped bleeding, and
Gasping for air.
They never go away

She is a soldier,
Fighting for her life.

And the battle is still waging--
Every single day.

One more time, one more time.
I’ll just do this one more time.
One last time and I’ll be fine.
I’ll just do this one more time.

One more time, one more time,
The crimson red is such a beautiful sight.
One more time and I’ll be fine.
Let me just do this one more time.

One more time, one more time.
The silvery gleam greets me once again.
One last time, I’ll be fine.
I’ll just do this one more time.

One more time, one more time,
Fresh roses are piling around me.
Is that you? Cruel angel of the world?

Take me away, one last time.

There is a boy in my closet
The boy is friendly but stays hidden
When I look in the mirror there he is
I became jealous of who he is
He says he wants to come out  
I decided to ignore it
But the curiosity grew bit by bit
Until I could barely stand it
"CUT YOUR HAIR"
But when I went downstairs my unapproving mother stood there
The boy wasn’t at ease with what our plan began to be
Because in reality, the boy was really me
But all people can see is she
That part wasn’t cut out for me
I don’t understand the big deal if I'm a he

You are the one
                 footstep
that connects to mine.

For every stride we take,
                Is never singular

   But one in unison.


You and I, are a step in the right

           Direction.

Never mistaken, but when we
             Work together


we"ll always take the right step.

If I'm only something that's in your way.
I'll leave

you took my wrist
in your hand
and traced my cuts
with your thumb
you caressed them
and kissed them
and spoke
few words
but you said
never
again

It cuts into me as a knife.
Scarring the surface of my soul.

Blood rolls down the blade
Carrying whispers of uncertainties.

It stares at me as it breathes me in,
And I breathe my last.

Before you take up your blade, Sharon
who do you see?
Will you be cutting to heal
or incising to free
some carefully hidden,
some up-til-now unbidden me?

When you take up your blade
and test the fresh edge
do you have an image of a me
fixed in your head?
Can you see in your mind
a kinda-me roughly out sketched?

When you make your first cut
do you have a clear vision
of what I'll reveal
have you made your decision
as you press down and carefully cleave
with loving conceiving precision?

When you lay your blade down
do you see I've appeared?
Do you know I'm complete
when the excess is cleared?
Or when you sleep do you wonder
whether there's a less of a me
maybe a more of a me
silently waiting here?