My presence is a burden.
The world has no room for a worthless body,
breathing but not mentally present-
each stroke of the razor,
slowly relieving me-
each drop of blood taking my burden off of someone's shoulders.
I was never meant to be here,
so I know the end is almost near.
This pain I feel inside,
sits right next to where emptiness resides.
Some live beautiful lives,
But me, I know I'm meant to die.
Amy Perry Jun 7
I've found myself on the razor's edge,
Like a figure skater.
I skate through life,
Avoiding hazards with grace,
Holding my head up high,
And spinning out of control
Once in a while,
Only to collect myself
In poised determination
And a flick of the wrist,
Brushing the worries away.
Alexis G May 25
I’m hurt. You’re not.
The feeling as the razor turned to the side glides across my skin is like no other.
The blood sleeps through my skin.
I’m satisfied as my skin is maimed and I’m satisfied to see that my emptiness will leave a mark.
And everyone will know that I
Am not alright.
Accidental paper cuts is where it starts.
You swiftly open your pink diary to write about the boy you fell in love with at recess.
It stings. Blood slowly drips. It stings. It’s so sudden and unwarranted.
You suck the blood and put a bandage on your finger and you write about your elementary school lover.

Drawn hearts around their names, or putting your first name in front of their last, it’s all your secrets.

They will never know.


You grow fast into middle school, where you encounter your first real heartbreak.
You once again swiftly open your pink diary out of heart broken tears falling from your eyes.
It stings. Blood slowly drips. It stings. It’s so sudden and unwarranted.
You suck the blood from your finger and put a bandage over your heart.

Scribble out the hearts, rip out his last name, cry silently into your pillow so no one can hear. Put on a mask in the morning until you are better. It’s all your secrets.

They will never know.


Fast forward to high school. Everyone is divided and different. People you once knew are once again memories. Lonesome days roaming hall ways. You tell yourself you’re used to it, but your mind thinks otherwise.
Once again, you swiftly open your pink diary to write about your boring day.
It stings. Blood slowly drips. It stings. It’s so sudden and unwarranted.
You suck the blood and put...
and p-...
and...
...
Put a razor against your skin.

Swiftly gliding it from left to right.
It stings. Blood slowly drips. It stings. It’s...

Amazing and exhilarating.

More. More. More.

Watch as I tear my arms into woven red spiderwebs.
Watch as I unravel this old bandage on my heart.
Watch as I show my vulnerability for just a moment.
I cant stop. I cant st op. The bleeding is n t stop ping.
I  c a n ' t  s t o-...
You put the razor down and look at the drips. you wash it off, throw away the bandages, put a sweater on and fall asleep. It's all your secrets.

They will never know.

It becomes a routine. Your pink diary begins to turn gray from dust. It doesn't help anymore. They put you on medications and therapy appointments, but you only get satisfaction opening your paper thin skin and watch as the lines well into pools of blood.

Drip.              
                 Drip.
   Drip.    

The sting in your arms is the only thing you can feel now. No one sees, it's all your secrets.

They will never know.

Never know...
What it's like to have this destructive addiction.
You see, I lied.
I knew the difference between paper cuts and razor blades when I was still learning long division.
It stopped being accidental after the first paper cut.
It began to be about glass shards on pale scrawny arms.
It began to be about long sleeves and pants instead of dresses.
It began to be about making excuses after excuses.

It's all my secrets.
They will never know.

... Never know until I cut one too many times.
Never know until my sleeves slide down my arms.
Never know until I puncture a vein.
Never know until I'm clinging onto lifeless pain.

It was all my secrets.
But eventually they knew.

They knew when pill bottles began to quickly empty.
They knew sweater weather was 6 months ago.
They knew the light in my eyes began to dim.
They knew I was suffering.

But I pushed them out.
Slammed the door and pulled down the sleeves.
Put on smiles and laugh like they do on TV.

Like an innocent child hiding paper cuts under bandages.
Growing into a masochist who finds solace in a razor.
Laughing at each tear that falls from my mother's face.
Door slams that just echo in my chest.
Digging more into my skin so I can just be put to rest.
This sweet, silent suffering is covered by a facade made of smiles.
But I still wince once in awhile.
It's just the cuts that rub against my inner side of my sleeves.

Reminding me of my dark thoughts.
Reminding myself of my weaknesses.
Reminding me of feeling something other than this numb orb,
that gnaws into every cell, ever nerve.
Up and down my arm until I feel the stinging static feeling.

Then I know it's time,
to start once again.
...
and...
It was all my secrets.
They weren't supposed to know.
I recently relapsed because I wanted to feel something. Can't say I regretted it.
Haleigh May 9
Razors;

Just one
slash on the skin
and enough
blood will gush out
then it’s finished
you’re free
and dead

Poison;

Easy, not
one sweat would
drip from your skin.
Just drink
nonstop—
don’t pause to
catch a breath
because you wouldn’t be
needing it.

Choking;

A lot effort,
but will definitely do.
You will need some
time with yourself
and only you.
Tie the most beautiful
knot you could do,
then hang yourself
like one of your
favorite clothes.

Pills to sleep;

One,
two,
three—
doesn’t matter how many.
Drink it all,
and you will fall
deep asleep
and wouldn’t feel it hurt.
It’s just like
overcoming a nightmare.

Intentional Accident;

Wander around
the dark, quiet highway.
Sit for a while and
maybe write a little.
Look around, say,
"I’ll miss you."
And then by now
maybe a car in a hurry
would hit you.

Drowning;

Oh, how calm the
sea looks like.
Would I bother its
sleeping time
if I jumped in it
and hugged it
tight?

Trigger, pistol, gunpowder;

Daddy had a pistol
hidden in his drawer.
He said he would use it
if some bad person
tries to burgle.
He only knows of
one kind of bad person.
He never suspected
he was living with one.
Kee Mar 25
Let me tell you a secret of mine
I think it’s time
That everyone knows
How broken I am
Because no one knows
How much my heart is shattered
No one knows
That my fate may be death
And I don’t know if that’s my happy ending or not
I miss my old self so much
That sometimes it’s hard to remember why I changed in the first place
And I want to go back
But I don’t know if I could go back
I don’t know if I want to go back
I was shy and fragile back then
I’m shy fragile and bit less of a crybaby now
It’s just that no one knows
That I still cry at night
And I wish I could die
And that I’ve wanted to place the razor to my wrist so many times
No one knows
That I miss me
I miss me so much
I want to be me again
But I don’t know how
I don’t know how
I don’t know how
I-
Maybe I shouldn’t try at all
I guess I’ll pretend to be okay
it has been months since the last time i ran a razor against my skin
i try to keep my days busy
hoping that i won’t turn back
i look at things different now
i scan people for scars and want to know about them
i love scars because they show where you have been
pain doesn’t phase me anymore
getting tattoos is enjoyable
not painful
sharp objects like cooking knives
or if my friend pulls out a pocket knife
bring me back
it is scary and tempting
but i choose not to go back
my scars are there and that brings comfort to me
the day that they fade will be a scary one
for i won’t feel at ease anymore with nothing there
i don’t like change
having my wrist marked up for so long became normal
i hope i have enough strength for that day
when it is cold
the scars are more noticiable
i secretly don’t mind the cold
it facinates me to see my skin change colors to temperature
i have learned that the color red is beautiful
red is the color of strength
that color came out of me
but the majority stayed inside of me
it used to be a bad thing
the color red
but i look at it differently now
i never thought i would be writing this poem
about “the days after”
i’m smiling right now because i did it
i got through the hardest mountain in my whole life
i see things differently now
-that day will come for you too
This life that I've been given,
Is full of dread and sin,
T'was made by God in Heaven,
There was no opting in.

My birth, the product of a couple,
As love engulfed their hearts,
But now the hate is not subtle,
Now they quickly grow apart.

My blood aches to escape me,
From the skin it's trapped beneath,
The knife shall be its saviour,
my wrist becomes a sheath.

The blade, it smiles at me,
With all those jagged teeth,
It wants to rip right through me,
To bury itself deep.

The long sleep is calling,
The final shut of eye,
Who will be there mourning?
When I finally take my life.

My funeral won't be lengthy,
There will be no words to say,
No talks of happy memories,
Nor showcasing accolades.

I know my days are numbered,
The light now is so clear,
Each day I grow more hungered,
Each second my death draws near.

There were people here for me,
But I caused them too much pain,
To them, I say "I'm Sorry",
It wasn't meant to be this way.
Sometimes I wonder if the razor blades I used to drag onto my skin leaves bits and pieces of itself inside my body.
It would explain why I'm always being pulled back into my room, as if it were a magnet.
It irks me that I always find myself standing in front of my bed and hiding under the covers until a new day begins.
I pull myself out, but I end up in this dull lighted room every single time.
I wish I could stop but my body self consciously just wants to be in here.
Is it the accustomed loneliness? The overwhelming depression? The looming anxiety? It's too much, my brain can't comprehend.
I just think about this while I lay in this god damn tear soaked bed.
I let my mind race while my arm trickles with the damages I've done.
They say blood is thicker than water, but when it's self inflicted drops of blood and bittersweet saltwater tears, they're both just as heavy.
I find myself punching and banging my head against the wall next to my bedroom door.
I can just... turn the knob and fucking leave, but I always stop in front of it as if it were a monster I couldn't defeat.
Am I entrapping myself just to make myself suffer? Do I enjoy this torture? Do I just love watching my knuckles turn green and blue?
I feel like I'm obligated to stay in this stupid room.
Maybe it's the self hatred telling me I deserve to be confined.
Maybe then no one will see my stupid face.
Maybe then no one can hurt me again.
No one else can hurt me but myself.
I know the capabilities to which my own destruction towards myself extends.
Some times I feel like I'm intentionally keeping myself in imprisonment.
I can't love myself because people tell me I must stay away from what I fear.
Fear is supposed to drive me away, not let it become one within me.
And I feel like shooting out my brain will make this white noise fucking stop.
I feel like slitting my veins on my wrists will make everything go away.
It can be so easy to take all this weight off my worn out brain.
All the pain, all the ache, all the hurt, all the suffering, all the torture, all the bruises, all the cuts, all the voices, all the reminders, all the insecurities, it would all just go away.
With just one single movement.
I can interpret this in however I feel would be for the best.
I can either open my bedroom door and run without looking over my shoulder, or I can open up my skin and watch it turn into a red and white color.
I just... need to get up. Move. Go somewhere. Anywhere. Leave. Now.

.... But I can't.
I have realized that I'm somehow always being pulled back into my room.
Rebecca Feb 19
Now as I feel nothing,
My body shakes in fear.
That what I once did to it,
Will happen again.
Now when that blade comes near,
A tear comes from my eye.
Because I promise never to cut again.
But now here I am trembling with pain.
This pain I cannot bother.
The long sleeves that I wear,
Are really are bloody.
Now that you’ve seen what I’ve done,
My time is running out.
For what I once feared,
I now lust for it.
That death will come near.
And I wont feel pain anymore,
And that I have died
I want you to know
That everything you have done to me
Killed me inside
That this pain I have suffered from,
Has now become unbearable.
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