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Marcella Faye Nov 22
I couldn't replicate to some people
Like how they did to me
For my heart is not like theirs.

My loyalty sits differently
And lets them rage in the fire
With their jealousy.
It's not in my nature to take vengeance for pleasure,
While others desires it.
Jade Aug 6
⚠️Trigger Warning: The following poem contains subject matter pertaining to self-harm, suicide, and involuntary psychiatric hospitalization⚠️

I don't recall a whole lot
about my first hospital visit.

I know only the
fleeting
keynotes of the experience.

And I'm not just referring to my first...
psychiatric (?) visit.

(I'm not sure if psychiatric is
the right word,
but I find that I often struggle
to find the right words
when I attempt to describe hospitals
and the time I've spent in them.


I'll do my best.)


See,
I had never been to the
Emergency Room for anything before.

(Well,
except for that one time
I tumbled off the changing table as a baby.
But I'm not sure that really counts,
my only knowledge of the event
having come from second-hand stories.)

Surprisingly enough,
being the clumsy child I was,
I had never sustained
any significant injuries
while growing up,
especially in comparison to my sister
who had a daunting repertoire.

When she was a toddler,
she executed a daredevil jump
from the top of the staircase,
breaking her arm as she crash-landed
onto the basement carpet.

While we were waiting
for her to be fitted with a cast,
I remember her doctor told me
to stop misbehaving.

While I can't remember
exactly how I was misbehaving,
I'm sure it had something to do
with the chaos of my temperament,
a chaos that has churned inside me
for as long as I have known.

Over the course
of my high school years,
when I would make several
appearances at the hospital
due to my own brokenness--
the very brokenness that persuaded
the lacerations on my wrists
and my lust for death--
the doctors would,
in their clinical, roundabout ways,
tell me the same thing:

to stop misbehaving.

In the ninth grade--
this here. this is the first visit--
my guidance counsellor and English teacher
had driven me to the Children's Hospital,
which was only up the road from my high school.

Oddly enough,
I had been relatively compliant.

I had gone quietly,
devoid of the defiant uproar
that seethed under my skin.

Perhaps I acted as I did to prove that,
despite, my darkness,
isolating me from the world I knew
would be a grand disservice to me.

Or perhaps I feared
what would happen
if I was to purposely disobey,
that, upon arriving at the hospital,
I would be treated like the rebel I was,
promptly disrobed of my independence.

The remaining details of the visit
have been resolved to vagueness
as time has passed.

I only know my father  
came straight from work to pick me up.
Before we left,
the doctor gave us pamphlets--
crisis hotlines,
accessing resources
within my quadrant of the city,
alternatives to self-harm.

The doctor dwelled on this last subject;

if I felt like cutting myself,
I could still satisfy the urge
without actually drawing blood.

I could press ice to my skin
or write on myself with markers--
markers not pens--
or snap a rubber band against my wrist,
which was the method
he had particularly fixated on.

He explained he wasn't too keen
on me snapping myself
all the time, either,
but that it was a preferable
alternative until I improved.

"Doc,"
I wish I'd said,
"If only you knew
how lovely it is to bleed."
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Jade Aug 5
⚠️Trigger Warning: The following poem contains subject matter pertaining to self-harm, suicide, and involuntary psychiatric hospitalization⚠️

Over the duration of high school,
there is one fear that eclipses
the daily rumination of my thoughts.

Behind sepulchred eyelids,
burn the imaginings

of wasp-needled syringes

straitjackets curling around bodies
with noose-like exactness

a padded room
absorbing brain-curdling screams
into its pink insulation.

At the time,
I was petrified that my newly-discovered
flirtation with self-harm
would land me a permanent stay in an asylum.

The rational part of me knew
that they don't call them
asylums anymore.

The rational part of me knew
there would be no syringes
or straitjackets
or pink, padded rooms.

It was the principle

If it was decided that I was
"an immediate risk to myself"--
a decision that would
incorporate the voices
of the people who barely knew me
but deny me my own voice--
I would be admitted
to a psychiatric ward,
and it would be against my will.

It wouldn't matter
if it was at the Children's Hospital or not--
It wouldn't matter if the walls
were coated with those
sickeningly bright colours
or if there was an Xbox
in the common area.

You can dress up a prison cell
as vibrant as you'd like.
But, by principle,
it's still a prison cell.

When they strip you
of your clothes,
and force you into
their bleak hospital gowns,
they also strip you
of your independence.

(You aren't even allowed
to wear your school cardigan,
the one whose soft, green fabric
you nestle against your fingertips
when you need comforting.

What makes you think
you can leave when you want to?)

See,
doc keeps ya locked up
until he's snuffed the
crazy outta you.

They don't like using
the word
crazy
anymore, either.

So,
like the prison cell,
they play dress up
with your "crazy",
draping it in euphemisms like

unstable.

erratic.

incapacitated.

suicidal--

Once this word is used to label you,
you are never quite able to
abandon its connotation of
madness--
a reputation of inferiority.

And everyone believes
that they are only doing what's best for you,
that hospitalization is the only thing
that will save you from yourself,
when, in fact, it's the ultimatums
and the countless visits to the ER
and the way you are treated--
like a poor ***** lying in wait
to be put down--
that destroys you.

The memories still
bleed fresh most nights.

I seethe at
the mistreatment and
the betrayal and
the destruction
like an army of bees
whose hive has been kicked in,
a snow-globe convulsing
between careless hands.

I was kinder
before they stole away
the last moon-slivers of hope
I held between heart and ribs,
between lips and flower petals.

The nectar has been
exorcised from my soul,
leaving only infestation behind.


(and there is no escaping this swarm)
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sushii Feb 5
You made a promise to them--
You wouldn't hurt your little girl.

You made a promise to them--
You would never make your little girl cry.

You squeezed her heart with your strong grip,
And told her it would be okay,
As you watched all the blood
Slowly drip away.

You made a promise to them
As her eyes faded away,
Dying with the sunset
And the rest of the day.

You made a promise to them,
Caramelized with lies,
As the thin line of her mouth
Filled with bile.
Anne J Oct 2018
Mistreatment, abandonment, corruption, exploitation,
Things that have been done, without any explanation.
Blue down the face, red down the brain,
Creating a purple, pleasurable feeling, of cruelty in perverted vain.
Yet the pleasure is reversed, for it was just an excuse,
For the deepest excuse that came from the most purple bruise.
I made this sophomore year. I believe I made the word "purchistic" up, and, no, I have no idea what purchistic means. Judging by the repeating "pleasure" wordplay, I think it was a combination of "purple" and "masochistic".
Shawn D Smith Mar 2016
I am a nice guy.. why? I guess the trauma I have endured, made me a bit passive, too much destruction and discord. I live at a distance however I'm still observant,
especially of individuals and their ideas. Without being directly involved to understand them, their words are still clear. I won't approach you or become close with you, because I have a prejudice and preconceptions, renationalized by my fear. My family and friends seem to be the only ones, I can trust. However those who I love, have had their own selfish aspirations fueled, by their lust. I often put others before myself, their needs seem to be more important than mine. I now come secondary, in my own personal life. I wear my heart on my sleeve, so im vulnerable to attacks, its now hard to trust those , who say they have my back.
I will give everything I have, just to get those who I love to stay, but my love is what makes them stay away. I'm a very forgiving person, and a horrible judge of character, my vision is narrow, I only see the good in others. I often get taken advantage of, and I go through many hardships because I have a personality that brings people to me inspiring friendship. If I could, I would no longer like to be, the nice guy, everyone likes. They tell me don't change! remain the nice guy... why?
Pretty much sums up what my life has been like for the past 26 years of my existence.
Dawn Richardson Jan 2016
Drive over me with studded tires,
Drain my tank until I sputter and die.
Your salt eats at my chassis,
Creating large jagged holes in my coat of steel.
You spin out gravel toward my windshield.
Crack! You’ve dinged me yet again.
When will I ever learn?
Probably never.
My brake lines are dripping,
I absolutely cannot stop this madness.
You drove me hard and put me up wet.
My headlights used to beam,
Now I am a one-lighted wonder,
Thanks to you, northern punk junk.
Watch this tail-light high-tail it on out of here.

1/6/2016
Your like her pet but instead of her giving you treats,
She beats you,
Then rewards you for letting her.
Peter Tanner Feb 2015
I am a man, this is so
I am tall, I am broad
I am seen as untouchable,
immune to hurt
This is not true
Under the muscle
Under the broad shoulders of this man
there sits a sensitive heart
It sits there unrecognized by many
Many that do not know,
that what they say hurts
"It will just glance off him" they think
But in truth, it strikes to the very core
They do not know of my tear stained pillow
They do not know of my heartbreak,
The isolation that welcomes me
They think they know me but they don't
They do not really know my manly but *sensitive heart
There are those who are sensitive but nobody knows, even those closest to them. Try to be kind to all those who you are in contact with for who knows. They may be sensitive, when nobody else knows.
lexiberi May 2014
Loving you is like wrestling with the horns of a bull
A modern Hercules and Achelous love story
Sneaking up behind me and grabbing my neck
Bruises scattered across my body by your rough hands
All apologies, no action
A chain reaction of mistreatment
Always coming back to me, begging for more
Then hostility
Without showing responsibility
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