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Y Obs Dec 2014
I try to be in the moment
But, lately, I see myself somewhere else:
Not here,
Not here,
Not here.

I try to see what there really is to see
But, lately, I find myself seeing
Ones that are not here:
You,
You,
You.
Porcelainwings Nov 2014
There are marks on my body
that don’t fade with the bruises
A broken spirit can’t be healed by stitches,
And as much as I want to pull myself together
You relentlessly haunt me in my dreams
And waking up, screaming, I do realize
The pain is long gone,
But your deeds cannot be undone.

You stole my childhood,
But that’s okay, you can keep it –
All I want is for you to be gone.
ray Oct 2014
I am told to believe in myself
look past the flaws
imperfections,
because all those things
define the uniqueness
within my body,
my soul
but what I see
when I take that
prolonged, aching glance
into a mirror
as cloudless as a
summer evening
is everything
I am told doesn’t matter
but
how do I ignore veins
crawling up my legs like
the spiders they're named after
or
fat under my skin
that seems to expand so widely
it is impossible for my
eyes not to trip upon it
and
wide hips
unfocused gaze
gaping pores
unshaped lips
rippling marks
etched on my skin
as a form of punishment
for being myself
sloping thighs
feet like
the twin towers
giant
tall
wide
deep
is that what I am?
uncertain
unknown
unloved
but in the end just
“unique”?
human
we’re all just human
but then
why
do I feel
so
mis
understood?
lovely Sep 2014
I was taught not to let a boy see the stains left on my heart by another boy but ******* how could I not, you were so inviting and helpful and I had to show you and you never disappointed me. You made these scars fade. Sure I got new scars, but they were the good ones. The kind that you look back on, smirk, and think that you wouldn't want any marks like this from any other boy. You make my soul and the scars look like perfection and I know it's wrong to romanticize pain, but god, how could I not find beauty in everything you do?
Clindballe Sep 2014
Grew up shaking hands with the iron.

Making a thousand diamonds shine on the floor.

Screaming over the voices inside.

Bruises and marks behind locked doors.

A game of play and pretend had begun.

Teddybears and sharp knives do not match.
Written: September 8. - 2014
Aiman Aug 2014
those nasty thoughts linger
in her head
sitting there alone in her room
on her bed
she wanted it to stop but it
kept on going
it's driving her mad, her mind
is insane

she's getting restless, her patience
grows weaker
she's a loner with no friends
or a foe
she needed to find a way to
let it out
and writing on her skin was
the only way she knew how

and so her beautiful skin became
her diary
all the marks of her misery
each lies an untold story
where she kept it secretly from
*everybody
Kyle Kulseth Aug 2014
With passing days queued up
          for the forecast foreseeable
Tuck into the routines' reserves
          deplete when permissible

Shot through the feet
          with what we can't forget
run on through the limp
          past the end of the sentence
                                             and sit
                         In the glow
                  remain undeveloped
                  stay unreconstructed
                  drop the curtain
                 on scenes interrupted

Dot your i's
          with up-slanted slash marks
sparks fill my eyes when
                            I read through your retorts
Blank page.
                                                        Blank page.
A waltz through a minefield
reeling jigs over headstones
          when digging through
           plain white lines
shåi Aug 2014
i begin to run
from the very thing
that i am

one.

the chase begins
a fight between
mind and body

two.

i suffer the inability to comprehend
the world and myself
my enemy is gaining control

three.

i lose my thoughts
i have lost the ability to
once love

four.

i punch the mirror
of myself
for words scrawled
hold an empty truth

five.

it never been there  all along
it had only been
myself

(b.d.s.)
suggestions are welcome!
elissa Jul 2014
You picked me up in your old classic car, swearing your mother had no idea and we had to rush, but we were so high from our kisses and from the wind swimming through our hands, we forgot all about the scars on my skin and marks on your face, lost in wonderland just the way you said it would be when I brought you home and took you to the attic, reading you stories about fruits like apples (we laughed so hard because you thought I was drunk) I was only drunk off you, comparing you to the bottle of scotch standing in my father’s bar or the shots of ***** your brother used to take because he never played with youth the way you played with my heart.
nichole r Jun 2014
???
question mar
ks???
written in pen with the brightest,
reddest
ink
dominate my thoughts
seeping in to
the curve of every comma,
filling the soft space
of every 'O'
clinging around the hard edges of every period
...e v e r y
                 w h e r e...
"where are my
exclamation poi
nts?"
I scream???
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