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Dovey Apr 2017
I’m sorry, am I ***** now?
Please don’t look at me in that way
It feels awkward when you stare at the wounds on my legs
And do it with such an empty face

I’m sorry, did I make you uncomfortable?
Your good little girl is suddenly, wrong
The only reaction you had when noticed my hurting
Was to tell me it doesn’t come from God
I don't hate my religion, but I'm beginning to hate some of the people in it.
Michael Archer Mar 2017
The walls cry-out as they burn.
A tumult of roars wreathed in the crackle of blazing matter.
Which is louder?  
Perspective will tell.
The one who assaults,
Or the one assaulted?
The roar, or the crackle?
The giver, or the receiver?
Pleasure in two forms, two-faced gratification.
One hand for dispensation,
One mouth for sublimation.

And do we not all sublimate?
Base impulses, rank ideas,
On the surface, vindicate?
The residue of consequence
Brusquely scrub and expiate?
Perspective will tell.

We espy hedonism, unbridled delight,
And may envy those who bathe in these muddied pools,
Focusing our most ephemeral sense on dazzling cacophony,
Ignoring the estranged husband of hedonism,
Shunning the divorcée of delight.
Which is truly louder?  
Perspective will tell.

In Oscar Wilde’s Salome the moon is thus described:
“She is like a woman who is dead.  She moves very slowly.”
Pandemonium in the hall, the howling of wild beasts,
But she remains “a woman who is dead,”
And “she moves very slowly.”

The divorcée of delight,
A pitiful coming-down.
The remnant of misuse,
The scarring of abuse.
One reads on a stone:
The hardly-lovéd daughter of overuse.
And the one who gazes overlong is warned:  
“You look at her too much.  
It is dangerous to look at people in such fashion.
Something terrible may happen.”

The walls cry-out as they burn,
And they cry in desperation.
What we see is conflagration.
The light:  A brilliant exultation.
The crackle:  A herald of termination.
But when ash is blown in silence,
It is dangerous to look at what remains:
Scar tissue.
Slow death.
Residue.
The head of John.
The bones of Salome.
Broken glass.
Wilted flowers.
Cracked foundation on hollow cheeks.
Red lips the stain of blood on ivory cloth.
Festering flies.
The beating of vultures’ wings.
The snoring of satiated beasts.
The stumbling home.
Apologies.
Sublimation.
Conflation.
Expiation.

One’s well-mannered pause until the other’s end,
So that the one may pause…
And begin again.
blurcasewriter Mar 2017
Oh your words
You bitter sweet words
Crushed my spirit
Crushed my soul
Words that cut deeper into my heart
Than a blade cutting into my flesh
Words so sharp
*Sharper than razor
For all the heartbroken ones out there we still love you!
Remi Leroy Mar 2017
“I know what you’re thinking.”

Do you?
You can’t read me like an open book.
You have no idea what I truly think.
What makes you so sure I even see you as a friend like the way you see me?

You see me
as a studious girl, diligently finishing my work
as an intelligent girl, acing the tests in the subjects I’m good at
as a responsible girl, always carrying out my duties with zeal and efficiency
as a kind hearted girl, courteous and honest
You also see me
as a mean girl who gossips about others
as a conceited girl who brags on and on about herself
as a selfish girl who does things only if it is to her benefit
as a coward who is afraid of so many things
as a lazy *** who does nothing in weekends
The list goes on.

Just because you see the good and the bad of me, you think
you know me.
Do you?
Don’t be too quick to answer that question.

You will never know the nights I spend going insane
thinking about myself
thinking about you
thinking about others
You will never know about the times when I breakdown into a useless emotional wreck
with the tiniest action from someone
You will never know about the certain few nights and what I did to myself
and how I cry
on and on, nails digging deep into my palms, on and on, uncontrollably hyperventilating, on and on… even when I don’t want to.
You will never know about the content in my diary
what these words really mean
what my purposes are

You will never know about the way my brain is wired
about the way I see the world
about the way my mind is poisoned, tainted, corrupted, trained to manipulate, functioned to lie.

You don’t know me even if you think you do.

You don’t know about how much I fear myself while I type these words
while I’m thinking about the pain in my heart and how it is therapeutic.

My lips are parched, my throat is dry, my breath is coming out in slow deliberate long breaths.
My mind stays warped, damaged and tainted.
The edges of my eyes hurt from too much rubbing.
My heart is still hurting, as it does every day and night.
My eyes stay shut as I think about how I am going to survive tomorrow.

You ask me why I hate everyone. You ask me why I am so pessimistic. You ask me why I am so irritable. You ask me so many questions and you say
“I know what you’re thinking.”*
Do you
when I don’t even know myself anymore?
14.07.20
Pei Yi Mar 2017
one cool blade, against pale
skin pressing lightly just
a bit then a bit
harder

no red so again just a bit
harder, against the smooth
surface until it
breaks

pain does not shoot through
your veins it is merely
routine, one way of
relief
Arianne Gallardo Feb 2017
“we break things not just as a means of release but also to see
some other thing broken aside from ourselves.”*

You asked me how
I got my hand broken
And I told you it’s
because the walls aren’t
getting any weaker

While I,
I am tired of trying hard
and I’m too worn out to fight

I am fed up with
all the things
I used to love

so I’ve been thinking ’bout
taking my life
but I see the walls
are all around
and I get the urge
to let it out

and so i do…

If I can no longer speak,
the walls would
for me;

they’d tell you a story
on how I turn
into something else
when I’m sad,
and how they stop me
when I’m not
in the right mind
and they’d tell you about
these little scars I have,
and all of the frustrations
I’m keeping inside.

You asked why and
I told you,
’cause they hear me,
when no one else will
and they feel it all,
every inch of my skin
when I lay it on them

so if walls could speak,
they’d tell you how I
hurt them
to hurt me
every single night.
N Jan 2017
self-harm
isn't always cutting

sometimes
it's ignoring your hunger
postponing your sleep
and picking at your face
every ******* time

it's listening to music
in maximum volume
pushing away your friends
and not turning on
the water heater when it's cold
but turning it on when it's hot

it is when you don't say anything
even though you're already dying
just so the people around you can live
without all the noise
---
http://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/art/news/amelia-hall-van-gogh-painting-cafe-terrace-at-night-self-harming-depression-mental-illness-a7532756.html
---
Secret-Author Jan 2017
I will walk with you, to the end of this earth that does not welcome you.
I will shine a light in every dark corner where you see hurt and pain.
I am yours to sit with for as long as you have to.
Until you can feel whole again.
Kash Dec 2016
I have a million scars
They all tell a different story
Some are small futile attempts at relief
Almost unnoticeable
but there all the same
They speak of desperate anxiety and release

Others are wide, gleaming red
Undeniably severe
Calling attention
To a mind once unwound
An attempt to destroy myself

Every scar is intimate
But up for honest inquiry
Of a genuine nature
An innocent curiosity
I will tell you about the scars
If you know how to ask
Paige Sawyer Nov 2016
People that don't self harm
Don't seem to understand it.
But I don't expect them to.

First, it hurts, A LOT.
It hurts when you first do it
And it hurts the next day.
It hurts when your long sleeves rub against it
And it hurts when you look at what you did.

Next, cuts bleed, A LOT.
At first they don't bleed,
You start cutting deeper,
Then they bleed, a lot.
It doesn't stop bleeding.

Please don't tell me to just stop.
I can't just stop.
It's so addicting.
Even though I want to stop,
I can't.

It starts out as you control it,
But then it ends up controlling you.
You want to wear short sleeves?
Think again, you can't.
You want to go swimming with friends?
Oh yeah, they'll probably think you're crazy.

Every time you do it one more time,
It becomes more and more addicting.
Just one more you think, but no.
This is the last time, but it's not.
You can't just stop.

I don't mean to hurt the people around me.
In that moment, all I can think about is
Hurting myself.
I'm sorry for hurting everyone else
While I'm hurting myself.
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