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.
Rebecca Feb 15
The dark red liquid flows from my arms,
Covering the sink and floor.
Crying inside but not outside.
That I have just made another mistake.
As soon as the blade touched my skin and slid from side to side,
My gut clenched in a paralyzing fear.
“Now I think I understand how this world can over come a man.”
Whispered in my ear softly
My earbuds played a song that makes me regret everything.
“Not that I could, or that I would, Let it burn, under my skin, LET IT BURN”
I quickly changed the song,
The wet liquid dripping from my eyes.
Maybe it was meant to be,
Maybe I was supposed do it,
Maybe not,
Who knows,
Why do people do this,
My body trembles every second,
With every voice,
And every loud sound.
In another room somewhere else,
You can hear the silent screams of a little girl,
Her dreams are broken,
Her eyes are dull,
Her body covered in new and old cuts
She feels unwelcome.
She wants to be okay.
But she lets her depression control her.
Somewhere else,
A man in Japan hangs his self
Because he feels unwelcome.
He goes to the store,
Buys his gun and bullets,
And goes to the middle of a forest.
Says goodbye to everyone through his phone.
And writes a letter that reads,
“Dear Family,

I’m so sorry I had to put you through this. You don’t deserve it, but I do. I deserve to be dead. I deserve to not live. I’ve been through the good, the bad, and the evil, but through it all I have to say goodbye.

Rebecca Feb 7
My body trembles with every step i take
As my knees clank like silver spoons
My mouth a boneyard of teeth broken from biting down on each other
My chest swoons with echos of heart beat that is lost
But i am a lost tourist here.
I will never know everywhere i have been
The moon light glistens onto my skin
And my skin ripples with delight
That the blood the pores from my wrists
Will never stop bleeding.
The crimson dyed my arms red.
Its like i have become addicted with the razor.
I lust for it
I need it
You will never truly understand till you try it
So go do it
Try it
I dare you
Then it will swallow you whole with an evil grin.
When you have entered its hallowed stomach
Stained with acid
You will become the monster you once feared.
FrankieM Jan 30
Can you believe it only costs $4.17 for a 10-pack of razor blades?
Free if you pocket them.
But after paying for every item and mistake I own, it seems so wrong for suicide to be so free.
I hope you'll forgive me.
Sun Drop Dec 2017
I am not a razor blade.
I am the sap in the twigs of the Yggdrasil,
the essence of creation.
I am a sensation,
felt by those troubled hearts that long for the spade.
I am a windowsill.
I am the iron will
of those who form our silent nation.
I am the soft parade.
But I am not a razor blade.

I am not the blood that taints the ground
where family members fell.
I am not the coal that fuels the fire.
I am not a sense of ire,
corrupting the minds of all around.
I am not the gates of hell.
I am not a victory bell,
whose ring announces raw desire.
I am not a snarling hound,
and I am not a razor blade.
María Carreras Dec 2017
As I look at myself in the mirror
darkness is all I see.
My troubled eyes
look back at me.
Tear stains
all over my cheeks.
The make up I use to hide my imperfections
is now
and so my ugly skin shows.
My hair.
The mess of tangles that sits on my head.
My lips:
as I let out another sob.
I can't do this anymore.

My teary eyes drift from my face to my body.
The first thing I notice:
my arms.
Skin so pale I could blend in with a white wall.
Next my stomach and chest.
And along with it,
the scars that have marked my past.
So gross.
So ugly.
So useless.
My legs, my thighs, no gap between them.
Why can't I just be skinny?
Why is it so hard?
Maybe I'll just give up on eating again.
That will make me beautiful, right?

Another cry, another whimper,
another imperfection found.
Another pill.
This will take my pain away.
I just can't seem to be good enough.
Shaky hands hold a razor.
My friend.
My saviour.
My life and my  cause of death.

Will I resist today?
Beach shell varnished, kerosene,
A crack in coastal stain glass window, like a hair across the face
Disrupting the vast porcelain
“you’ve got a hair on your face, let me just”
and then it takes the lipstick with it,
a line printed like a paper cut,
“where’s the razor? Where did you put it?”
I put it in the bin and try and not seem too desperate.
We bundle into a car
Like some odd kind of sleepover.
A plaque on the wall saying the current prime minister opened it back in the day.
The old building is cracking like sedimentary rock in reverse.
The lemon lime and bitters clink in the bag and
I can almost convince myself it’s a summers day packing to go
Off to the beach, running down
With a picnic blanket
Sand in shoes
Tinkling down like an egg timer.
Seals, odd floppy babies about to bark,
The tussock a balding old man, spattered across the dunes
“let’s get icecream”
“let’s get fish and chips”
“let’s get out and stop take a photo”
the wind whipping your hair at your face
flicking icream off the cone onto your face,
why is it all so messy?
Let’s got to kākanui, let’s go to moeraki
Let’s stop to get a coffee.
You sure it’s safe to drive, this tired?
Let’s stop and have a nap.

You good to go?
You sure?
i don't know that this is finished. it's kind of a mash up of going to the beach with a friend and going with a friend to Emergency Pysh Services.
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