We painted picture perfect skylines to veil every flaw that we'd uncovered but we're not so naive to think that it would be enough ever to paint the stars to hide the scars that she'd carved into her wrists and in her thighs and in her neck to give her hell to reminisce.

We watched in horror at the crumbling of the friends we've come to know. Watched them decaying rapidly from people living to caskets full of bone. He said "darling I was listening and I was watching all along and I tried to understand but you're dying all alone, so come back home."

But where is home when we're drowning in our doubt? Is it true that you're looking for a way out? Because I still see your light shining brilliantly.

So hold your breath and give in to  this. And fill your pockets full of stone. Walk to the river heavy footed and stand up on the shore. And listen up and listen in and watch the tide keep climbing in up to your feet and then your knees but it doesn't have to come this.

We painted picture perfect faces to hide the chaos in our minds but we spend every waking moment hoping it'll fade away in time. And so we pray the smile stays but always fear that it'll fade. And so we etched it in our skin so it can never fade away.

I hate myself. That's the short of it. I have struggled with this as long as I can remember. In talking with DT this week, he reminded me of some of the reasons that I am a good person. I hear it, my brain processes the words, my heart wants to believe it, but then the familiar words of "if he only knew" creep in and consume any hopes of believing it is true. Sad thing is, he does know. He knows more about me than any other person... he knows the nitty gritty details, the good, the bad and the dark & ugly. So if someone who does "know" can still find the good in me, then why the hell can't I believe it?

It's frustrating. I don't enjoy walking around feeling like this. Shame is my cloak and hatred follows me wherever I go. I envy the people who have good self-esteem because I am not one of those people. My husband is one of those who just looks comfortable in his own skin. My skin is too tight. So I cut.

I was taught to cut. By someone close to me who was hurting me. It is almost as if it was their calculated attempt to hide my feelings from the world and show me how to turn them inward. The sad thing is, cutting as I was taught did ease my feelings of guilt, shame, anger, etc. It was my release and my best means of controlling my feelings. A simple cut was a distraction to the larger pain. I believe this is where my self-destructive behavior took root.

Over the years my self-destruction has taken many forms. Alcohol, drugs, more cutting, binge eating, not eating, and pushing everyone away who even attempted to love or care for me. "I will make them leave before they can decide on their own to leave me", that was my constant thought. I've always thought it to be better anyways because anyone who got to know me surely would be repulsed by my secrets. I work hard to ruin my own success because I'm terrified of the good happening in my life. Good means that it can turn to bad. However, it sure is a lot of work to live my life like this and from the outside looking in, it must look strange to watch me ruin the good things going for me. I know my husband sees it as strange; a frequent argument between us is my resistance to let him love me. He knows me, maybe not all the dark and sordid details but he still knows me. And even then, I still resist the good that is him in my life.

All this leads me back to the silent treatment. I ignore my own feelings, thoughts, emotions, and dreams. In a sense, I give myself the silent treatment. And in return, that pain created by the silence, leaks out as self-destruction and hatred. When the good comes in my life I embrace it for a time and actually attempt to feel. But then, like clockwork, I shut down and the silence begins. An internal temper-tantrum eventually ensues, screaming to get my attention only to be met with more silence until I can no longer ignore it. By then I am so out of control that I resort to self-destruction which temporarily cures the larger pain in my life.

In writing this, I can see that I'm actually quite predictable. No wonder people close to me are maddened to watch this process happen time and time again. So here goes, I'm going to start listening to myself and hearing them out instead of screaming back to shut up. Hearing myself has to be easier in the long term than continuing to make a mess out of my life through self-destruction because now, for the first time, my own destruction is hurting those around me who love me and that is something I cannot continue to do.

I have been at war.
I'm sorry I've never written you.
The weapons we use are our minds.
Our survival, it's our destruction.
The only gun driven into our skull is the one we hold.
I have battle scars and healing wounds, they were left by nobody other than myself.
Someone drowned last night, he was thinking too much.
We learnt how to make nooses and how to use them.

Cut cut cutting out the cardboard of my tongue
I can no longer taste your kiss as my body has gone numb
I have to block out thoughts of you so I don't lose my head
Chopped off at the root of me, my essence running red

Something stupid, clumsy and dark stumbles at my door
I told you to get out of here and not come back no more
But silly you you slit your throat and dont know how to sew
Looking in my window for answers, acting like I know

Choke me with a guitar string, this music will be the death of me
But it'll get me lots of ***, so I don't even sweat the heat
Time will stop ticking when the world has finally lost its rhythm
And I'll be sitting on an oil drum screaming out of tune at children

Old men die just to do it once and see if they survive
While im happy just popping pills to see if im alive
I can no longer taste your kiss as my body has gone numb
But I still feel my way around the barrel of my gun

You're too loud for
your porcelain throat;
your rose blushed
china doll cheeks
crack each time you smile
     -- just a little
That silk-smooth black
hair does nothing
to keep you warm in winter
but frames your face
in perpetually delicate contrast

Your words are hammers
Actions are sparks
as much a threat to yourself.

I'm not afraid of you, only
of when you come to life
and your expression never changes.

defined by people who
doesn't matter
to either you or me
but we still live
in shadows of their words-
pinned and pained down.

those few little words
uttered by strangers
shook my sanity -
pulling strings and
puncturing the little bubble
caving my mind.

I know they,
their words,
shouldn't matter
but can you blame me
when all the people in my life
are all strangers?

I met an artist yesterday,

sat in solitary silence,

In the shadowy corner of an affluent bar.

And cloaked he was,

by babble of students,

Boasting of wealth and test results.



molested In the attire of a catholic school,

His cigarettes born from bible pages;

and -- Inebriated from the blood of Christ --

surrounded by empty glass apostles,

He paints the papers,

In a masterful stroke --

Of pointilistic precision --

In a viscous hash oil

That he had melted on a crucifix.



The artist drunk, and drunk

He drowned himself,

Deafened by his liver

Drowning in a sea of expensive whiskey --

It was a miracle that he could walk on it.



And began to rack

the coke he'd wrapped

in a losing lottery ticket --

In plain sight of those

'sophisticated' enough

To use a bathroom cubicle.

And hoovered the diamond shards into his nostril,

Through a rolled up scrap of paper --

A letter for an Oxford Interview

he could not afford to get to.