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peyton 2d
It waits in corners,
a whisper dressed in shadows,
calling me back
with promises of silence.

The thought presses sharp
against the edge of my mind,
like a blade I no longer hold
but still remember.

Some nights it hums
like a song I once knew by heart,
soft, dangerous,
asking me to sing along.

But my hands stay empty.
My skin stays whole.
I breathe through the ache
and let the music pass.

I will not dance
to that rhythm again.
Even if it circles me forever,
I keep walking forward.
this poem is about how ive healed from self-harm but it still manages to creep into my head when ive had a bad day
I want the suffering to end.
I'm sick of the flashbacks,
the cutting,
the pain.
Everything that life brings me,
I'm ******* tired of.

I want the hallucinations to go away.
It scares me to hear someone call my name,
or to see someone stand by my door,
only to realize there's no one there.
It almost makes me sad
that my brain made it up
and none of it was real.

I want to feel free again.
I'm done sleeping on my parents' bedroom floor,
and being consumed by an addiction to self destruction.
I want to be free of thoughts and compulsions to harm myself in any way I can.

I want it all to end.
Warning-This poem contains themes of self harm and suicide.

What will it take for you to finally care?
You never cared to ask how I was doing,
and then when I ended up in the hospital,
you were all over me,
asking questions,
and telling me I was going to be okay.

Will it take my suicide for you to admit you were wrong for what you did to me?
You'll keep lying to our friends
until the day I die.
Then, you'll feel too guilty to keep this lie going,
and you'll cave in.

Will it take me carving deep wounds into my skin for you to say you're sorry?
When you see the cuts
I know you'll ask me if I'm okay because your mom is worried about me.
You know I'm not,
but we're both liars here.

Now I lay here,
in my bed, covered in my own blood,
wondering
what will it take
for you to listen to my problems,
for you to apologize,
for you to care,
for you to realize you were a terrible friend to me.
I know how it feels to be invalidated.
The words, "try harder," and "just stop" replay in my head like a movie.
I would take that advice if it was that easy,
but that's not how my brain works.

I know how it feels to feel like an anomaly.
I grew up different from all the kids, I was weird and I had scars on my arms and legs.
If it were possible, I'd be normal,
but there's no fun in being like everyone else.

I know how it feels to be minimized.
We were both so young that it "doesn't matter."
I wish I could let it go,
but I won't forgive her until I get an apology.

I know how it feels to not be trusted.
I was too unsafe to be by myself.
I slept on my parents' floor in their bedroom, sometimes for several days.
but I don't know when I'll be able to regain that trust.
Warning- This poem contains graphic descriptions of suicide attempts and self harm.

I remember the days with my hands wrapped around my throat.
My wrists were cut up and my eyes were filled with tears.
I was only ten.
I never want to feel that way again.

I remember thinking I was better off dead.
I'd been almost a year since I'd cut myself,
but I sat thinking about suicide in the rain.
I was only eleven.
I never want to feel that way again.

I remember taking a ton of pills before school and sitting by the door with a belt around my neck.
I couldn't stop cutting, but I was feeling happy.
I was only twelve.
I never want to feel that way again.

I remember writing this poem.
I'd finished writing all of my suicide notes, with a plan to **** myself on a random Sunday.
I'd given up cutting and was on three antipsychotics.
I was only thirteen.
I'm ready to never feel this way again.
Grass too green,
sunlight ripped into jagged shards
by the fig tree’s fists of shadow.
Cupcakes bleeding frosting,
iced coffee sweating through paper cups.
We pretended it was a family.
We pretended.

Mum sat besides Dad,
like their bones remembered being joined.
Like his hands weren’t already holding someone else’s.
Like her vows weren’t chained to her job.

I opened my mouth.
The sugar rotted on my tongue.
Everything spoiled.
And I told them.

How I hunted for older hands.
How I thought I needed it.
How I wanted out when I saw the second man,
but the door was already locked.
How they used me.
How one carved into me,
split me open with steel,
left a word to rot inside my skin.

My own scars, I’ve loved.
They are mine,
my handwriting on my body.
But this one,
this one crawls.
It doesn’t heal,
it festers,
a maggot under the flesh,
hissing that I didn’t choose it.
A vandal’s tag on my skin.
An infection of me.

Dad’s face twisted, anger,
then collapse.
Mum’s face, vanished,
then drowned in tears.
The helpers, two statues,
faces carved like gravestones,
motionless as I gutted myself.

I clutched my ribs,
hugged myself,
but the scar pulsed,
thick, swollen,
as if it was laughing.
And no one reached for me.

The picnic died.
Flies feasted on icing,
ants drowned in coffee.
Mum and Dad pulled apart,
the rug split like torn flesh.
And me,
already in pieces,
my body a crime scene.

I dragged myself to the sun,
limped like the scar was a chain.
Collapsed.
Let the world blur.
Even in sleep,
I felt it twitch,
like a parasite feeding.  

When I woke,
a hand on my face.
Gentle. Slow.
Tracing me the way she once did
when I was a baby,
her fingers mapping me
like I was new to her again.

She avoided the carved word.
Her touch lingered on the scars I made myself,
as if she understood those belonged to me.
Her fingertips circled,
again and again,
like she was trying to write over the wound,
to overwrite the trespass,
to give me back the body I lost.

Mum beside me,
breathing clouds.
No words.
Just her arms,
finally closing around me.

And for one fragile moment,
the scar went still.
Not gone.
Never gone.
But almost forgotten.
22: 22pm / Make a wish! I know it only counts for 11:11 but 22:22 counts as well
Cass Aug 14
After the blood stops running
And the relief is over
An almost impossible to describe feeling takes control.
Its anger, regret
Its sadness and pain
Its how could I do such a horrible thing?
Its panicky hiding
Heart rate increasing
Oh my God how do I hide this?
But then after a bit
when bad feelings set in,
The cycle continues again.
Finished cutting and decided to describe that feeling.
i’ve been feeling empty,
a mere vessel.
kept praying for something
to change.
but something shifted
when it came.

thought i’d already
met the ground,
until i learnt
you can sink lower —
disintegrate,
and drown.
this one is about the moments when depression takes you to your lowest.
August 13, 2025
EllieeRosey Aug 12
In shadows deep where silence dwells
A heart once lost in private hells
With whispered pain, the scars did show
Yet from these wounds, a light can grow.

Each tear that falls like morning dew
A testament that battles true.
With every dawn, a chance to mend
To seek the strength in love.

Hands trembling, I let go of the past,
embrace the warmth, and breathe at last.
In colors bright, my spirit sings
As hope unfolds on fragile wings.

The road is long, with twists and turns
Yet in the struggle, my spirit learns.
To find joy in simple grace
In every step, I find my place.

So if you feel the weight of night
Remember, dear, you’re not alone in the fight.
Together we’ll rise, through pain to soar
With hearts united, we’ll heal once more.
girlinflames Aug 11
Why won’t it cut?
I’ve run the knife so many times
but nothing comes out of my thigh
at least,
my tears have stopped falling
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