Life keeps striking,
one blow after another,
until my ribs feel hollow,
my spirit bruised.

And then it comes back,
that thought.
Quiet at first,
like a shadow in the corner.
Then louder,
pressing against my chest.

I wrestle with it.
I want to live,
to hold on,
to find a way through,
but that thought
keeps circling back,
like a tide that refuses to rest.

No one sees the battle.
No one understands
the weight of a war fought
in silence.

So I write it down,
trap it in ink,
so it won’t devour me whole.

I am still here,
not because it’s easy,
but because I keep choosing
life,
again,
and again,
even with that thought
always at the door.

Warning-This poem contains themes of self harm.
Note-This is one of my old poems so it is a bit different from my other ones.

Sometimes I hate the memories.
The fresh wounds are red and the scars are white.
They remain to remind me
How painful life used to be.

I can visualize the ****** razor in my hand,
And I can count scars,
One by one.
I can taste the metallic blood that's running down my aching wrist,
Running down my arm in watercolor strokes of maroon.

I can't keep my hands off blades,
And throughout my life I've cut away,
Just because I can't handle pain,
So I put it in a different form.
Where the memories and scars of it will remain.
I can feel the pain and imagine the blood stains on white carpets,
Trying to scrub away the mess of the pain I've caused myself.

Even though there's no longer pain,
The scars still remain.
And the memories,
The cuts,
Will never truly fade.

Warning- This poem contains themes of self harm, suicide, ****** abuse, and more. If these topics trigger you I suggest you don't read this poem.

"I think your scars are beautiful." Said no one.
I carry the traumas of my past on my wrists and my thighs.
I feel like a gross monster.
Every day when I look in the mirror, I'm reminded of my pattern of self destruction and self hatred.

But I don't only have scars on the outside.
Open wounds exist inside me from the events of my past.
The memories replay in my mind like a movie theater,
and I watch myself suffer over and over again.
I see myself getting sexually abused, watching my parents drunken accidents.
I see ten year old me getting shoved into a countertop and I can still feel the physical and emotional pain.

Sometimes I want to slit my throat and cut up my wrists so I can be done with the **** this world has to offer,
But I know I can't go out like this, not so young.
I know that I have things to accomplish,
and I have goals to reach,
But it's so hard carrying this weight on my shoulders all the time.
I don't believe I deserve this.

Oh, stupidity, where do I begin?
I always resort to cutting my skin.
Why do I do this you ask?
Well, it all started in the past.
I felt a growing pain in my brain,
A tingling sensation in my heart,
And until then,
And way back when,
Wait... I don't even know where to start.
Once again, let us begin.
I was insecure about my body and a double chin
Normal things maybe,
and I really wanted someone to call me 'baby'
I was love-drained.
Not to mention, I loved the rain.
Then came the emotions,
New ones I might add,
To hurting myself when I get yelled at by my mom, or dad.
My therapist has told them how much I hate yelling, or even loud sounds,
but they always resort to it, when I'm already feeling down.
Now my mind is filled with thoughts,
I can't even answer.
Because when I do, pain is included,
As I think, this will do it.

I have signed a form
That I can’t turn back from.
I have raised a hand

Of which

cannot be undone.

I have held a blood-stained blade
That’s ruined another,
Scars, wounds, words and all,
Isn’t red a horrible colour?

Isn’t red a horrible colour?

I have made a deal with the devil
And it's given me a choice:

Be the monster
I always have been
Or
Fix myself
With a roll of dice,

Stain my hair
Bronze, silver and gold
Or
Dig through the dirt
At my feet,

Bite my tongue and
Hold my throat
Or
Clasp my hands together,
On my knees.

Isn’t red a beautiful colour?

my skin is my own
sewn to my bones
my blood is pumping
i can feel it rushing

my heart is heavy
with past mistakes
i promised myself i would never make

my brain is riddled with lies
i tell myself it’s okay to cry
yet i still wipe the tears from my eyes

i fell some type of pull
towards you
like two magnets of the opposite poles
we attract

my arms are weak
from working endlessly
to please
everyone around me

my skin is sewn together
woven together by a thread
yet it’s meaningless
because my pain is still present

i am wrapped in my sadness
like a living mummy
my body is not my own
and my mind is unknown

i am trapped
in my coffin
strapped to my deathbed
i feel undead

I was so young barley double digits
All I needed was a hug
To be told everything would be ok
Nothing seemed ok
I was changing
Everyone was changing
I stopped worrying about if my bike tires had air
Instead I started worrying about my hair
Why were people staring
I worried about what was wrong with me
Why was I like this
too loud
Too sensitive
Too different
I needed a hug
But I picked up the blade
I need to feel something
I wanted the pain
I was 10 when the lines began
I was just a child
Barley double digits
Who reached for the blade
Instead of reaching for some help

TW : references to triggering topics below

My art is not considered normal
It’s made of fine lines
The lines form rows
They tell a story
Of whom I once was
During the tears
Those tears not only lasted for year but also still last
My fine lined art has recently come to a end
Or more of a rest
Because it may start again
My fine lined art is not art
But a way to cope
A way to breathe
Yet my skin bleeds whenever I draw those lines
The fine lines are considered ugly
To the eyes of society
they will leave scars forever
But my scars are not ugly they tell a story
Of my fine lined art.

I remember,
Going back to class,
After taking the knife to my skin.
By knife, I mean the stolen box cutter,
From engineering class.
Meant to be used for cardboard.

I remember,
Sitting through class.
Letting that ridiculous long skirt,
Absorb my ****** pain.
Fearing, it would seep through.
And someone would see.
Although it never did.
And no one saw.

I remember,
Hiding in the bathroom.
For three periods in a row.
Clawing at my thighs,
Because the only tool I had,
Was a pen.
So, I wrote cruel things.
Promises, words to end things.
And when I emerged, glazed.
No. One. Noticed.

I remember,
How much I wanted them to see me.
To look me in the eye,
And see my suffering.
But, no one did.
No. One.