money machine
was astride
but direly
enured any
time but
for treasury
would still
dilate his
mind if
togetherness was
our kind
when ritual
finally was
to field
but wept
and dined
in spring

Sometimes I wonder if the razor blades I used to drag onto my skin leaves bits and pieces of itself inside my body.
It would explain why I'm always being pulled back into my room, as if it were a magnet.
It irks me that I always find myself standing in front of my bed and hiding under the covers until a new day begins.
I pull myself out, but I end up in this dull lighted room every single time.
I wish I could stop but my body self consciously just wants to be in here.
Is it the accustomed loneliness? The overwhelming depression? The looming anxiety? It's too much, my brain can't comprehend.
I just think about this while I lay in this ******* tear soaked bed.
I let my mind race while my arm trickles with the damages I've done.
They say blood is thicker than water, but when it's self inflicted drops of blood and bittersweet saltwater tears, they're both just as heavy.
I find myself punching and banging my head against the wall next to my bedroom door.
I can just... turn the **** and ******* leave, but I always stop in front of it as if it were a monster I couldn't defeat.
Am I entrapping myself just to make myself suffer? Do I enjoy this torture? Do I just love watching my knuckles turn green and blue?
I feel like I'm obligated to stay in this stupid room.
Maybe it's the self hatred telling me I deserve to be confined.
Maybe then no one will see my stupid face.
Maybe then no one can hurt me again.
No one else can hurt me but myself.
I know the capabilities to which my own destruction towards myself extends.
Some times I feel like I'm intentionally keeping myself in imprisonment.
I can't love myself because people tell me I must stay away from what I fear.
Fear is supposed to drive me away, not let it become one within me.
And I feel like shooting out my brain will make this white noise ******* stop.
I feel like slitting my veins on my wrists will make everything go away.
It can be so easy to take all this weight off my worn out brain.
All the pain, all the ache, all the hurt, all the suffering, all the torture, all the bruises, all the cuts, all the voices, all the reminders, all the insecurities, it would all just go away.
With just one single movement.
I can interpret this in however I feel would be for the best.
I can either open my bedroom door and run without looking over my shoulder, or I can open up my skin and watch it turn into a red and white color.
I just... need to get up. Move. Go somewhere. Anywhere. Leave. Now.

.... But I can't.

Two wrongly pushed knobs
One mine and one in a state
I can't trust response

your walls of
salt and blood
beckon me back,
the fish carved into the ceiling
seem to say none
but
"welcome home, friend"

the bruises covering my arms
where the veins should be
tell your story,
my freezing blood
drums in my teeth,
i am unsure.

the white band around my wrist
is my only defining factor.

i am no different from the other kids
sick with exhaustion
and
sick with anxiety
and
sick.

cartoons from my childhood
are running on the tv
and the icy saline
creeps up my spine,
keeping my mind silent.

but really i am cold
and it is late
and i am tired,
but if i sleep
what if i never awaken?

it has happened before.

every time i nearly faint
the thought of going back
hammers my temples,
and i need the break.

but they are annoying
and the most dangerous places to be
alone with your thoughts.

am i insane for enjoying
being sick for a while?

but soon the loneliness
creeps back into my bed
and i cannot wait to leave

until i get back
and i wish i was alone
once again