I'll show you these scars and the stories they tell,
The things that I carry and the things I hide well.

You'll listen with the grace and poise that's expected,
But I'll fear when I'm done I'll find myself rejected.

Some time has healed, while others have not,
Some I've fixed, while others I've left and now rot.

You'll try to soothe them through kisses and words,
But deep inside me the river of pain is still stirred.

But they're not yours to fix and not mine to keep,
It's not through you my relief I should seek.

I've carried these things and I carry them still,
I can overcome them now through my own will.

I just ask that you'll believe me and on me risk,
A life we can build on a first and a last kiss.

Put ice on your wrists,
Or wherever the scars usually appear,
And hold it for five to ten minutes,
The urge should disappear,
Along with the sensation in your veins
The signals to you
That you're about to black out.

If you don't have ice,
Apply pressure with your hands.
Bonus points if they're cold.

Don't allow yourself to become too aware
Of the blood in your veins.

Breathing exercises help too,
And while you're at it try grounding yourself.

Count how many things you can see up to five.
Then count four things you can hear.
Three you can touch,
Two you can smell,
And one you can taste.

Make a list of what calms you,
Make a list of what gives you bliss,
See how many things go between each.

Talk  yourself down,
Remind yourself you can't do this.
Remind yourself you have to remember.

Don't focus on the trigger.
Forget it,
Quickly.

Distract yourself.
Something you can hear-- Music.
Something you can taste-- Gum.
Something you can feel-- Your lion.
Something you can smell-- His sweatshirt.
But what do you focus on?

You can't seem to find a fixed point to keep your eyes on,
And the threat of a black out is receding,
But why did it start?

You can't even remember what set you off.

Your hands are soaked.
The ice cubes melted on your wrists.

These parts feel like a lie I am giving to this world,
but it doesn't throw me back a sneer,
it pretends it doesn't know.

I am carving my skin with questions,
but it bleeds back no answers,
only trophies in the shape of these scars.

I am clawing myself out,
but the pit feels like quicksand,
the more I want out the more it takes me in.

I am half a person, half a ghost
already burying myself
inside the casket of my own skin.

If these gods were real
they'd have made us of sturdier stuff
than hearts that break apart at the slightest whisper.

When I was fifteen years old I came home from school one day and wrote a poem instead of cutting myself.
The next day I didn't write a poem.
Eighteen only wrote poetry in red.
Nineteen crawled under their desk with the lights turned off.
Twenty had panic attacks.
But thirteen still loved the world.
And ten only cared about going out to play.
And nine never thought growing up to be a gender would hurt so much.
But twenty-one can't breathe in this skin anymore.
And twenty-one doesn't want a twenty-two anymore.
And nineteen tried to pretend these feelings weren't real.
And fifteen tried to eradicate all the feelings altogether.
And seventeen just cried a lot.

My years have come together to unfold me into a disaster.
I am broken even in my most whole parts.
I am empty even on my most alive days.
If you send out a SOS into my chest the sound will ring off into its empty chambers and only answer itself.

cutting ties that bind - by Kristie


So I cut myself with a knife

just to see if I can still feel any thing in this pathetic life

But I feel nothing at all

as I watch my crimsom blood fall



I score my skin, deeper and deeper, push the knife in

nothing..... not even a sting...absolutely nothing

I fantically seek a virginal place I can carve, cut away my hate

self loathing, disgust, as I look at myself, what a ******* state



Waiting to faint, as my blood seeps and escapes

but as if mocking me, I have to wait

relief comes at a price, a deadly cost

and reminds me of all that i've lost



tired and sleepy, waiting for death to collect me

I've planned for no one to save me, finally be free

one last slice, just to ensure

deep across artery, my blood pumps no more

Epitaph (by KT)
19 September 2012 at 12:11

Write me a poem.
Use the words you were born with,
The words you grew up with,
The words you speak everyday of your life.


Don't bring me a rose from a garden you did not grow.
Better the thick green stalk of a ****
Grown wild and unbidden
Behind the steps of your back porch.
Better a handful of parched grass
Plucked fitfully from your own lawn.

Write me a poem
And let me hear your voice.
Unsmooth, raucous,
Irritating as the sound of a rusty tricycle trundling by.

Let me see your face.
Scarred and uncared for,
Unwashed and unshaven,
Tender and sad.

Write me a poem
And deliver it to my mossy grave
With a ragged bunch of flowers
Planted and picked by your hand
And read me your words.

I WILL LISTEN.

And beneath the earth
And upon the winds
And across the seas
I will sound my applause
In the song of the tiny sparrow
As she flies forever home.

CUTTING THE TIES THAT BIND
So I cut myself with a knife
just to see if I can still feel anything in this pathetic life
But I feel nothing at all
as I watch my crimson blood fall
I score my skin, deeper and deeper, push the knife in
nothing..... not even a sting...absolutely nothing
I frantically seek a virginal place I can carve, cut away my hate
self loathing, disgust, as I look at myself, what a ******* state
Waiting to faint, as my blood seeps and escapes
but as if mocking me, I have to wait
relief comes at a price, a deadly cost
and reminds me of all that i've lost
tired and sleepy, waiting for death to collect me
I've planned for no one to save me, finally be free
one last slice, just to ensure
deep across artery, my blood pumps no more

My Journey Through Madness
#illness   #self-harm   #selfharm   #mentalhealth

"you've acquired new scars,
birthed since the last time,
i saw you so bare."

   he buries his arousing discovery
into my patchwork skin
kissing each neat slit like they make him want me more
   like the ground within his bones begin to rattle, losing control
forcing him to rip open the barely healed seams and watch my blood pour
his gaunt eyes seeping with lust

"i love you, my girl,
regardless of the controversy you create."
  
  though we know it isn't regardless of,
it's because of
which is why, in 6 months to this date,
when it's time to want me again
exposing me to the slaughterhouse beauty pageant we become
he will discover further harm,
wounds dedicated to his fleeting lust

The metal blade
That kissed your skin
Will nor remove the pain
Nor form scars
To match the ones
Formed by betrayal upon
Your heart
The seeping blood
So crimson
Enticing
Will not wash away  
They way that tears do
The sadness you may feel
Spent on people who
Mistreat you
But they are fools
And so beneath you
And their razor blade tongues
Cut into you
But you will rise above
Their hurtful words
Like blood red roses
In the snow
And from the ashes of  
Your broken self
We'll see the fire of  
Your beautiful spirit
And we'll have roses for ashes then

*© 2011 Vincent S. Coster