I dreamed that things were not as they seem
That knives shone and glass did indeed gleam

I dreamed of a world of fairy tales,
Of magic, sparkle, and singing whales

I dreamed you were standing by the shore, so was I,
So were peach castles and the sound of a lullaby

I dreamed that you turned to me to say...
whisper in my ear, love on your fa--*

A sound jolts me awake, you hold a blade to my throat
And you have on your favorite mask and that coat

There is no one to hear my screams.
Next time I won't dream.
Things are not at all as they seem.

I think I'm starting to get bad again
I'm playing with my knives again
I like the feeling of the blade on my skin
I almost sure I'm starting to get bad again
I've picked one knife and used it
I've cut into my own skin more than once
Not deep enough to scar though
I'm definitely getting bad again.

Your brown eyes were always so colorful
Your lips so warm on my skin
Your arms so strong holding all my breaking pieces together

But the colors in your eyes paint a ****** image
The words coming out of your lips were knives that made me bleed
And those strong arms of yours no longer kept me together, but tore me apart.

My art teacher requires me to have an x-acto knife in my possession.
This, my friend, is a bad idea.
You see, she is blissfully unaware of my harmful tendencies.

But I can assure you, that if there's one thing I know,
it's that knife will be used on more than an art project.

School in itself is a trigger.
Knives and razors are the index finger that pulls said trigger,
setting off an explosion of blood along my wrist.

See, dear art teacher, that knife will hit my skin,
whether I want it to or not.
In a moment of weakness,
of stress,
I will turn to that available outlet.

I do not know what is scarier.
Having that knife with me every day,
or knowing that a twisted part of me wants to use it.

(d.d.b)

i threw my past at you,
thinking you'd understand,
because pain is relative, and
i knew you got that much

but whats been thrown at me,
be it punches, or knives, or
you and
your words

i guess i just put more
trust in the thought
that you'd think more like me and
you'd, for once, have sympathy.

All these knives in my back
         They don't even hurt anymore
   I mean, I'm sore
                 And it's intense
      But it doesn't make any sense
I must be at war
         With myself
      Tearing apart the insides of my brain
Have I gone insane?
           Why do I
Keep letting these things
              Happen to me?
       Is there a sign taped to my back
  Saying "Torture ME"?
            "Take Advantage Of ME"?
        "Love Me And Leave ME"?
    What's wrong with me?
            All this backstabbing
        Take this pen
And drag the ink into my spine
   Use the blood drops as a tattoo design
           The scars from all the knives
     Will just make it look more divine
Maybe some Angel wings
           With a sash torn apart
      and "Nobody Loves ME"
Written across the heart
            Might as well throw it all away
       Throw it all out the door
    I'm sore
          But all these knives in my back
     Don't even hurt anymore

A room filled with smoke and drink and
knives in pockets. A man in a grey suit
sits at the bar and lights a cigar.  

He can smell violence in the air here. Metallic and
sickly sweet. He grins with anticipation and orders
a drink. Old Fashioned.

A short time later in a room filled with smoke
and blood and knives gripped in dead hands,
a man in a red suit laughs softly and sips an
Old Fashioned.

Hannah lies
her collection of knives
on her bed
most given

by her father
-the largest
an SS knife
he took off a dead

SS man-
her mother
passing by
her open door

says
whit hae ye
those kni'es
oan yer scratcher fur?

I'm showing Benedict
my collection
Hannah replies
O heem

th' sassenach loon
Mrs Scott says
he's nice
Hannah says

and he likes knives
and guns
and he's interested
in seeing them

sae ye say
her mother says
and walks away
to the kitchen

Hannah sits
on her bed
and waits for Benedict
to arrive

she likes
the SS knife best
it has a kind
of haunting feel

about it
the door knocker bangs
gie th' duir
Hannah

it's th' loon
so Hannah goes
to the door
and Benedict

stands there
come in and see
Hannah says
so Benedict follows her

into her bedroom
here's my collection
she says
showing him

the knives spread
on her bed
he picks up a knife
or two and weighs

them in the palm
of his hand
and feels along
the blade

he picks out    
the SS knife
and says
deadly thing this

have you one?
she asks
no I have a flick knife  
my uncle gave me

he puts the SS knife
down on the bed
fine collection
he says

and they both sit
on the bed
near the knives
at the one end

Mrs Scott walks by
and stops and says
waur ye sittin'
oan th' scratcher?

just sitting and looking
at the knives
Hannah says
nae oan th' scratcher

her mother replies
Benedict looks puzzled
and Hannah says
she doesn't want us

sitting on the bed
Benedict nods his head
and says
o right

and looks at Mrs Scott
who stares at him
sternly and walks off
something I said?

he asks
no
Hannah says
she doesn't trust us

sitting on the bed
why is that?
he says
God knows

Hannah replies
hearing her mother
cursing in the kitchen
like a buzz of flies.