"I wish," are the two words spoken under one’s breath. These two words are all it takes to summon me.

Some call me a monster, while some only call me reality. I am the monster living not under your bed, but in your head and in your heart. When my name is called out, no one cowers away, for they all know that in some way, shape, or form, they harbor me inside of themselves.

Out of a mouth etched in pain I hear the soft whisper of two words. "I wish," the voice thick with misery and pain. With those two words,  I find myself behind the hunched shoulder of my summoner, assessing her situation.

She looks just like any other from the outside. A petite , and young female, only a girl.  Her stance makes it obvious that she is, drowning in her own despair, wishing that she wasn't as she is. Wishing she was smaller or taller or cuter.

In the back of my mind, something tells me that she is different from the rest. For some reason, I know that this girl will have a lasting impact on me. For some reason, I forget not to care, and this betrays my evil character.

My head tells me to comfort her. To tell her that her body only gives her more for her soulmate to love. That her height only makes her the perfect height for him to hold. Tell her that she is beautiful no matter her flaws, because they make her unique.

Still no matter my strong will for her to believe, she screams out, howls. "WHY AM I ME? WHY HAVE YOU DONE THIS TO ME?" the end of her question coming out wobbling and begging, her genuine question seems to break off a layer of my heart.

As she takes the razor blade across her criss-crossed arm yet again, a river of blood runs down the length of her arm in a bumpy trail. This river being not smooth or clear, but filled with not only the things that make up blood, but also all of her anger, her pain, her defeatedness.

After years of doing this job, this one girl is able to make me empathize with her with just the slight of her wrist. Immediately, I try to help her.

"Stop Caroline," I cry out to her, hoping it will be enough to stop her destruction. As if she doesn't hear me, she continues to carve yet again. This time, her breathing becoming more shallow.

"STOP," I yell loud enough to make my vocal cords hurt. Yet, she doesn't hear me, and that is evident by her slowly closing eyes and her non-existent breathing.

Noting that she's dead, I break down. I'm left thinking only two words. Ones I never thought I'd think. I wish...

there once was a girl,
alone in a world,
filled with neglect and hatred.
she learned to use that neglect and hatred on herself.
she ripped her wrists like it was paper every night.
and cried a river till the sun would rise.
she looked in the mirror and did not recognize
the beauty and love she had this whole time.
there once was a girl.

In an attempt to scratch the itch under my skin
caused by a hundred breathing irritants
I take a blade and when they ask

Oh this? It's just a scratch

In order to filter the thoughts in my head
I crack it open with a can opener

In trying to find the answer
And filter this poisoned blood

I poisoned my self with terminal self destruction

In an attempt to filter the blood contaminated with wrongful thoughts
I bleed from my irritated layers
As if the air will give a transfusion to heal this ****** up life

She sits stressing,
depression pressing
sharp silver metal
into her skin,

leaves adults stuttering
and wondering
what is so wrong with her,
while looking down with
disappointment.

How strangely that lately
they forget
how intense
it felt
when they were kids.

Its like intentional amnesia
as they try to numb
any primal passions,
dulling their once
delinquent delights,
quelling the yelling curiosity
in favor of
a less passionate
drunken love.

But she has not yet succumbed
to that humdrum
self-inflicted
emotional wound
that is draining
yellow liquid,
oozing
that which is
conflicted
that which
we should be using
to understand
everyone else.

Teenage heartaches
and high school drama,
friendships lost
or changed
drastically,
with all the pain
it leaves,
she is set in
an ocean of confusion.

So, at night she lays her face
in a salt wet pillow case
as she cries
herself to sleep,
instead of ending her week
at the bar down the street
like her parents do
just to get through
their working blues.

Watching videos
from youtube
and reading poetry books,
she still dreams of more,
uses her art to explore
hopes and dreams,
while her parents seem
to exist hopelessly.

When the silence comes
she sits disquieted
as dark thoughts
settle like sandy sediment,
then float up
like all that flotsam
from the wreckage
of her young
sea sailing heart.

Her parent don’t
have a clue
how much she is going through
and sometimes
she doesn’t believe
that they even try to.

I said I love you,
you, I love you more.
But what you don’t get is that there’s
nothing more
than loving the one that you adore,
even as they tease their skin with the
sharp points of a blade.
I will always love you more,
more than reason, more than is safe.
You’ve captured my heart, soul, mind
and I could never walk out that door,
no matter how many
tracks cross your skin,
no matter how many broken promises
of newfound strength float into the air.
I love you more.

Skin

I see my skin.

I see it bleed.

I see it cry.

I see my skin.

I see the marks. 

I see the pain.

I see way I hide my shame. 

I see the lose.

I see the gain.

I see the child I use to be. 

I see my skin

and the secrets it hides. 

I see the way I am different inside.

I see that I am no longer who I use to be.

I see my skin. 

I see my scars.

I see the things I did to my self. 

The things I did to my skin.