it's not that I want to ruin my body,
but you ruined it.
you did this to me
cuts
they don't make me any stronger,
in fact they make me weak.
all the pain, all the truth
I wear like a battle wound.
you
you did this to me.
and for some reason, the loss of my own blood doesn't upset me.
the loss of my dignity doesn't upset me.
but, the loss of you does.

Some guys will leave lip prints on your body that will fade away, but will leave cuts in your heart that will last forever.

There was something
About the cold metal
Sliding across my
Innocent skin
As it slowly ripped it open,
Like a zipper on a jacket

There was just something about it
That always had me crawling back
To do it once more

-e.w.

I look down hoping to see
something other than what I already know.
My God will be
oh-so disappointed
if I have actually done it.
Maybe I didn't.
Maybe its just my imagination.

But I feel it.
That
oozy
sticky
runny
warm
thick
trickle
runs down my am in
a beautiful
glossy
flawless
crimson.
I am so ashamed
but yet so relieved.
I feel like relieved is a wrenched thing to say.
It probably is.
But my morals died
the first time
the razor
and my skin
collided.

And as I stand here,
in awe of my art,
I realize that
oh ****
I have left a little pool
on the floor
and oh ****
it might stain.

But I don't want to clean it.

It catches the light in a certain magical way.

Does this make me evil?
Or simply confused?
Maybe my mind is not working
because I'm just in awe
of these
sick and twisted
but revitalizing
cuts.

each of these scars on my skin (paper)
tell stories and my fingers touch them to hold my memories
because i remember opening up and i hated telling anyone
how i felt
and what it was like to see my insides pour out
and that i still wanted to do it,
i still wanted to decorate my arms, thighs, stomach, hips, heart
with little pink red purple red lines
i remember when he grabbed my arm and i cringed and flinched and ****** air in through my teeth and my chapped lips
and you knew
through all that blue fabric you could see
my scars

r.c.

Hiding in the bathroom
Laying on the floor
Weeping from the heartache
Begging, "Please, no more"
I cry out for help
But nobody tends to listen
You spark the words
My name in vain
I question life
Am I even sane?
Nothing is ever what it seems
It's just a tragic fantasy