They say it's good to see me smile
And how they haven't seen it in a while

And they ask about my writing-
Am I still troubled and alone.
"Are you still writing about cutting?"
Am I still afraid of all these ghosts?

No, I don't think so.

I might be troubled, but I'm not lonely
I was never afraid to be alone

And I write of self harm because it comes easy

You know:

I started reading about self harm.

And I found that it was the only thing that broke my heart- my scarred and bruised heart was finally broken.

My heart swelled and gushed and broke for you.

And all those gashes.

How the skin swelled. Blood gushed.

How you broke.

And especially how you would lie. And say you're fine. Until your depression forced the truth from your lips.

And I remember all those bracelets. All those things to hide your wrists. And how twloha was seemingly permanently engrained on your arms.

And I remember thanking god that it wasn't from a blade dug into your skin. And how it was funny and ironic because I didn't believe in him then.

But I kept your secret for all these years. And I hope you're doing better.

I pray that you are.

And if you aren't..?
    Well, I guess you'd never tell me.

Not anymore.


And you see:

That's why I'm bitter. Why I'm angry. Why I'm hurt.

Just tell me honestly that you're fine and don't you dare tell me a lie.

Cause I was there.

And I remember.

And I still think about it all the time.


And believe me when I say that it has consumed me.

It affects the way I write.
And what I say.
And how I meant it.

It's about the only thing I write.

Words like: scars. Wrists. Etched. Carved.

See. I'm a liar if I say I still don't think about you all the time.

We so often talk of breaking bones and slashing skin but never how to fix or deal with it. As if, in the back of our minds, we hold on to these sufferings. Because they're the things that make us feel human. And ain't it the only thing that matters?

And it's every breath, every finite movement of the hand against wrist. Every bit of our existence is a defiant stand against God. And it's God that has abandoned us. It is God who has left us all.

And so abandoned, self destructive, we break bones and slash skin. But we don't pray to God to save us. And we dare not trust our friends. Not our family. Not ourselves. We'll just wash away our sins.

I write uncomfortable poems
I write a bit too much about death
And of these feelings so familiar
And about how she would cut her ******* wrists

And how she would call and recount the horror; I can recall the shaking of her breath
And how every word seemed to break like thunder over telephone lines
And how she'd curse her name with razor blades
And how the feeling of helplessness always kept me awake.

And I write disasters down on paper
And about what else life has left
And of these destructive behaviors
To forget my own, I write out hers

It's disheartening that you're sharpening all your knives to break your skin. To gouge out deeper, to cleave disaster, to carve out canyons with your hands.

And your heart's pacing and your mind's racing while you're retracing every scar with a pen. What a nervous itch that you hope to quit. The knives you hope to ditch weigh on your mind again.

You know these epidermal lies, they're just artificial highs just to help you get by but it's not the same as finding a new will to live and finding one more hope to give in every single cut you did just to keep you sane

These medications that you're taking: they're not keeping you from breaking. They're just filling you with anger, a bitterness and a resentment

And it's not shocking that your pill popping has got your heart stopping. You feel like dying once again. What a nervous itch that you hope to quit. The pills you hope to ditch weigh on your mind again.

Your decisions left incisions. But let's not talk about it. Let's just forget about it

So tell me dear. Assuage my fears.
That these tears don't flow in vain.
Your self harming is disarming.
Such an alarming way to cope with pain.

So I'm still waiting for your self hating to start abating but you won't listen.
And so you cry, afraid to die, the blood is dry. Still knife glistens.

So you wear wrist bands. Trace scars on your hands. Give into demands of your heart soaked in crimson. So draw the blade when the scars fade and don't you dare evade the questions.

Will you not come home? Are you not alone? Aren't we made of stone, of which will crumble? Is there too much strife to get things right? 'I hate my life,' she mumbles.

You know:

I started reading about self harm.

And I found that it was the only thing that broke my heart- my scarred and bruised heart was finally broken.

My heart swelled and gushed and broke for you.

And all those gashes.

How the skin swelled. Blood gushed.

How you broke.

And especially how you would lie. And say you're fine. Until your depression forced the truth from your lips.

And I remember all those bracelets. All those things to hide your wrists. And how TWLOHA was seemingly permanently engrained on your arms.

And I remember thanking God that it wasn't from a blade dug into your skin. And how it was funny and ironic because I didn't believe in Him then.

But I kept your secret for all these years. And I hope you're doing better.

I pray that you are.

And if you aren't..?
    Well, I guess you'd never tell me.

Not anymore.


And you see:

That's why I'm bitter. Why I'm angry. Why I'm hurt.

Just tell me honestly that you're fine and don't you dare tell me a lie.

Cause I was there.

And I remember.

And I still think about it all the time.


And believe me when I say that it has consumed me.

It affects the way I write.
And what I say.
And how I meant it.

It's about the only thing I write.

Words like: scars. Wrists. Etched. Carved.

See. I'm a liar if I say I still don't think about you all the time.

You're writing your sins down as scars on your wrists and you're hiding them all behind bright colored bracelets. And you're praying at night just to help you get sleep but you're so lonely at times that you can't eat.

And it gets lonelier still when all your friends start to change. Move to new places or move on to new things. But these things don't intrigue you. Not like it does them. So you shove it aside, try not to show your frustration.

There is no salvation. No escape from discontent. Only death dates etched into tombstone cement.

But your frustration's swelling to an ear splitting hum. And your heart's pounding rhythms in the beat of a war drum. There's a slash - a quick flick of the wrists. Broken mirrors. And tears. And fingers curled in fists.

You started tearing down the walls in the back of your mind. Just to find some solace or some peace of some kind. I hope that you find it - the reprieve you're looking for. If you feel disillusioned, I hope you won't anymore

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 know what it's like to wake up every morning
Wishing you hadn't.
I've pressed the blade to my skin,
Stockpiled on pills,
Written so many notes
Explaining how much it hurts
And how I'm not strong enough
And how I'm so ******* sorry for giving up.

You talk about it so casually,
Like losing you wouldn't tear me apart,
Or drive me to that point myself.
I know what it's like.
I've been there,
And sometimes,
Sometimes I still feel that sadness,
The kind that fills your soul and consumes you.

There is a difference between us, though.
I fight the sadness,
I fight for my life.
You let it snake it's arms around you,
Choke you until there's nothing left,
And then have the nerve
To talk to me like I don't understand,
Like I haven't been there.

Well, I do understand.
I understand that you are the love of my life
And that with each passing day
I am losing another piece of you to the sadness.
I want to save you,
To put your broken pieces back together,
But I can't.
I'm just hurting myself in the process.

You're a time bomb.
I can't be around when you explode.