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s Willow Jan 2019
I ride the wave of life,
But at some point
I schools learn to swim.
I kick and kick and kick
I float then my friends pull me under.
My best friend is my Razorblade.
He’s the reason I’m like this.
The demons follow me around,
Always behind me but like always
I’m the one in last place.
By brain is melting from the drugs.
Pulling at my strains chains
I’m still not going anywhere.
I sit and wait for death to get me.
When he finally does,
It’s down to hell for me I go.
I see my mistakes.
Hurting others was never my goal.
I’m still not sorry for what I said.
I’m still not sorry for what I said.
Not even for the blood you caused.
At the end it’s down to Hell I go.
Louise Joyce Jul 2018
What is blood's belonging,
When we just cut its supply,
Ending our stream,
Ending our lives,
Lives filled with misery,
Disturbed in despair,
Life is filled with obstacles,
Though everything is fair,
As fair as her skin,
In the sunny skies
Though if you look closer,
If you look at her thighs,
Under the trousers,
As dark as her mind,
Scars dancing,
Upon the streaks of a line,
So what is blood's belonging,
If we just cut its supply,
Ask the girl,
Who drew on her thighs.
Thighs Self-harm Scarring Drawing Razorblade Blood Bloodstream
'Unfulfilled Dreams'

I'm buried beneath
Unfulfilled Dreams, the rapids of cracking hearts—broken streams
Unfulfilled dreams
That left me, falling apart at the seams
They removed my aegis
Then left me with nothing but
Cut me deep
I have no more resistance, 'gainst the end of my existence

~My head is sinking
Legs treading in waters
Lost in the moments that have taken my happiness
More than knee deep
Lost in the deep-end
within my thoughts—an ocean
In the late hours,
I am drinking against the current
Whilst my body is sinking.
Thoughts, & dreams in every heartbeat - yearning to be set free,
they've stayed within my head—full of what could be, full of what I had believed.
How can someone be so full, yet feel so empty?
Abandoned &
With last hopes pushing my shaking legs,
I left,
the night stars led,
& I followed them, through mind fields, a mind filled with flowers paved in stems
Following the stars in constellations - connected like bridges, & traversed,
like dreams - at first,
they were my friends, then ~
They devoured me.
I woke, veins filled with love & lead—silver, I bled.

They left me  
with broken wings
Shoulder blades bleeding, & flapping like a sick circus of ominous scarring.
My answers must be at the end.
I can't help what I think, I can't help what I dream, dreams are pretend.

I'd rather be pulled in—reality's current, a riverbend.

A razorblade, made a longer stay - never refused when I begged.

Broken skin, was a better friend
Broken skin, unlike a heart, can mend.

By: Ashton C. Amstutz
cassiopeia miel Jan 2016
god, remember that morning when i said i didn’t have an addictive personality, as your fingers struck a match to light our cigarettes, yours a last (i forgot how many last smokes you had) and mine just for something to occupy my shaking hands and provide my coffee company.

i was a liar, i am an addict, a user, and my obsession is destroying myself. every stroke of a razorblade across my wrist feels like how the gentle kiss of a lover should, every finger-wide line of ketamine like finally coming home from a long trip.

how odd it is to finally receive the love and understand you’ve been withheld your entire life, but immediately upon doing so, all you want to do is run or lash out in ways that make them regret ever thinking you were worth a second of their time; can’t you see i am bitter, twisted, broken?

what am i supposed to do with love? humans are impermanent and i know best with my unstable at best self-image and my propensity to fly the coop at the slightest sign of attachment. i don’t want affection. love doesn’t keep you full, love doesn’t keep you warm, love is unconditional, but so is hatred and she is a better mistress than anything with a heartbeat.
i gotta stop writing monologues
Roses are wilted,
Violets are dead,
Leaves fall around us
As something gets stuck in our head.
The light beams onto the silver,
But quickly reflects-
Sooner rather then later,
I'll start to neglect-
Blades are silver
They look good on skin,
But listen before you begin,
Wait until the wind breaks
Before you let the blade
Willow Branche Jun 2014
I want to cut.

I need to cut.

I miss cutting. 

I miss the scars. 

I miss the voices. 

I miss the deep spiraling depression.

I miss feeling out of control.

I miss feeling. 

Why do I miss being sick?

I thought I would be happy when I wasn’t depressed anymore, but now all I feel is emptiness. 

Where feelings of fear, anxiety, and sadness used to live, empty space echoes revealing what is lost.

I miss it all.
And I know I shouldn’t.

— The End —