Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Ginger R Aug 8
Do you know
How I turn my fingers down
How hard can my nails
Bite my flesh

Just hold it there
Imagine what it's like
To slice open-

There's blood
Blood is hard to hide

You're right in front of me
You're telling me you can't see
See me?

There's a scab on my wrist
There's a scab on each wrist
Maybe I deserve this
Why can't you see this

It's not healthy
It is wrong
I'm wrong

So Clearly I deserve this?

Can't you see me
You ask me how I'm doing
"That's great"

You walk away

If I clench my fists tight enough
My nails
Bite my flesh
(it's my second poem with a bad word :O)
Sabila Siddiqui Sep 2019
Your name wrung
between the lines of
fresher tender cuts.
Brushing a slower finger
over dusty pages,
disturbing untold stories
that was long untouched.

Your name is
the tap-tap of hammer nails
and the crimson consummator.

The barricading name,
of the mesmeric temple of apologies
molded by unequivocal agony and anger
lying in the bleak moor
laced with your remnants.

My mind is left shambled on the floor,
shards of memories
now leaking as exudate
am I being inflamed?

If I were to paint this across the canvas,
it’d be red, blue then purple
a galaxy with mismatched constellations
on a rippled fabric of night skies.

If I were to ink you to paper,
tracing you in black
you’d diffuse, cry and leak
into a pool of red,
dripping at the edge of the paper.

You are the cactus
pricking with every temptation.

The one engrained in my figmentation
wrapped in lessons
coloring the pigmentation of my skin
with various hues.

You are the open wound
with the fabricated scab.

You are the name
that rings inside my head,
echoing through my memories
trembling shakes, tremors
through the cronies
widening the past a little
more within me.
camps Jul 2019
today i scraped my knee when i fell from my
seahorse look under the scab there’s two
men sitting around a fire they’re discussing the finer
things in life like the more probable causes of the
dinosaurs’ extinction and whether all-white
meat chicken truly does belong in
the stomachs of millions of americans

for them dessert only comes around when a child answers
the question of what they’d like to be when they grow up
i wouldn’t make a good scientist because i didn’t believe
in climate change until your smile melted me in half how rude
now i’ve made a mess at least i have something to believe in

manufactured to perfection i’m at a loss
for words the yellow pages won’t ring
me back while i wait i think of the dust in between my teeth
and of the smell the flowers in your mother’s garden
gave off despite it being slightly nauseating

there’s a man that i see he’s
always sweeping the sidewalk or cleaning the windows
and i’m always dressed in black
meh. not too entirely happy with this, but there are some gems in there.
most importantly, i'm enjoying writing again
Nigdaw Jun 2019
Poetry is the open wound
From which the **** of our minds seeps
Infecting the world with it's vitriol
Spreading it's disgusting disease
A scab that never heals, as we pick
And pick away at an itch, letting the injury
Ooze and weep, always there to remind us
We can never resist perverse temptation
And rid us of the addiction that will always
Cause us pain, so open your minds
Let them breathe and pen.
N R Whyte Feb 2019
I knew it wouldn't end in fire;
We burned
Too fast, too enjoyably, to suffocate
In flames.

I found the scab, the source,
Small and round and secret.
Incapable of leaving it to heal, I finger the edges
Nervously until the blood flows
Cold and jealous and foreign and unforgiving and slow.

A tipping point we can't reverse out of,
We're frozen on the event horizon,
Empty like the air in February,
The oxygen burned out from our explosion.

I am only left with regret and this
Sense, clear and dry and freezing, that I've walked
Too far north and lost the sun,
Though clouds still part in the distance and wave
Toward the open spaces
With fingers unfurling in unnatural curls.

I claw back to calm from
Calamity and speak, knowing I have listened
Too deeply to words meant for other ears - words that do not tell
Me what to say in return - I am raw.

I stand at the edge of mercy,
Abrupt in my humanity,
Suddenly losing feeling in my toes.
thelemonpolice Jul 2018
This love is a scab on my skin
What once was coursing through my veins
Lies flat atop my skin
I keep picking at the edges
I give into the itch
no wonder it won't heal
When everyday it splits
It leaks onto my clothing
It spills from underneath
It stains all that I'm wearing
and makes me grit my teeth
a shower couldn't help me
it stings, I don't feel clean
I wish I could stop picking
But now it's just routine
I wish I would stop scratching
Reopening the wound
Itching just to look at one more
Photograph of you
Itching just to pick up
My phone and speak again
Itching because this skin
wasn't good enough for him.
I have made a song based on this poem, check it out! >>>>>
Asiah Mangham Jul 2018
Your expectations were to high.
Your wound had a scab torn off by the unbearable truth.
A wounded animal like my wounded conscious mind. 
The injury gone but the threat and fear still aware.
cait-cait Jun 2018
you want to stick it in me ,,

break me
                         so that i leak .

it's boiling hot,
you wield a blade
that does not
cut skin .  

but still i bleed ,
and pick each scab .

i will **** you before you ever see me
open ,

beg for me.
this is a really ****** poem but it’s how I feel, I hate ***.
Meiyun Jul 2017
I envy your self-love, your ability to know that everything right now is how it is supposed to be
When you think of me, you think of good times and happy memories
When I think of you, I too cherish the times we spent together
But I'm also reminded of how lonely my life has now become
The substance in your life makes it so effortless for you to move on
Substance that I, myself, lack
And it makes me wonder
Am I really in love with you
Or do I just want you to make me feel whole.
Trying to get over a love lost to distance
Chloe Chapman Mar 2017
I like the colour purple,
     as it blooms across my skin,
The delicate spread of lavender,
     dappled with yellow and green.

I like the smell of iron,
     of copper pennies and blood
As it oozes form a scab
     or drips from a fresh cut.

I like the feel of my ribs,
     the bones beneath my skin,
The curve of my skull under my cheek,
     Or the joints of every knuckle.
Wrote this on a whim..
(and yes Colour is spelt right, that's how we spell it in England.)
Next page