as you held me,
your hands moved across me,
your fingertips tracing
every curve of my body.

your hands wandered
until they found my scars.
every muscle in my body tensed up,
waiting for you to comment on them.

they weren’t new.
by this time, I had dealt
with all types of reactions.

there were the people
who were disgusted
and didn’t try to hide it,

the people who were made so
uncomfortable that
they didn’t know what to say,

the people who
insisted they understood
when it was obvious that they didn’t.

you were hard to read.
I wasn’t sure what to expect from you.
you pulled me closer to you
and held me tighter,
and I felt myself relax.

you didn’t tell me you were fine with them, you didn’t tell me you were sorry,
and you didn’t tell me they were beautiful.

you were honest,
and I loved that.

you weren’t fine with them,
but neither was I,
and that didn’t stop you
from caring about me.
you weren’t sorry,
you didn’t pity me,
and you didn’t change
the way you acted around me
like most people do.

but most importantly,
you did not call them beautiful.
they aren’t.

there is nothing beautiful
about self-hatred,
and these scars
are nothing more
than its byproducts.

self-harm is not pretty.
my past is not pretty.
my scars are not pretty.
I told you all of this.

you didn’t disagree with me,
you didn’t try to argue.
you simply held me.
you didn’t look at my scars,
you looked at me.
you didn’t say much.
you didn’t have to.

when you did finally speak,
you told me,

“you’re right.
your past isn’t pretty.
but that doesn’t mean
your future can’t be.”

I've been here before,
day and night, forevermore.

Carved every memory,
through every wall.

Hoping you'd read them all.
Listen, if you please.

Through this dying heartbeat,
I yearn for peace.

I've been here before,
in a memory once more.

it moves
like the moon: full to crescent to nothing at all;
existing all the same until the next phase

it burns
like a knife; eventually less, as the knife gets blunter,
the desire gets weaker

It’s amazing the way that we bleed
The way the skin parts and the blood starts to bead
It’s a rush you feel through the skin
Like a tingling sensation without and within
Or a touch of rapture inside
Like the soul is escaping through a crimson tide
Believe it or not, it’s freeing
Until the moment you just stop bleeding...

The cut across my skin felt like a broken heart shattered across a million times.

Life is hard...
You just gotta do it.

I sit in my room and I cry
They want me to say I am fine
I sit in my room and I cut
They want me to pretend I don't
I sit in my room and attempt sucide
They tell me its all for attention

Soon I won't be here to listen...

The slicing sting of the blade as it strokes my skin
Is not pain
But relief
From the raw bleeding within.

The draining drips of crimson as it drowns the floor
Is not unsettling
But reassuring
Compared the truest stomachache of all.
Living