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TW: Self-Harm

My flesh is my own,
Grown and sewn,
To skin and bone.

But my mind is hurt and I don't know why.

As the metal hit,
On leg to wrist,
It painted my body.

Nothing could stop me.

It was addictive,
Yet I am still alive.


From one to two,
Then some to a few.
I could not keep score,

My body is now torn.
This is a very heavy topic for a poem, but as you may know, I do tend to write about the reality of life, and that includes mental health struggles. I wanted to write this for anyone who has struggled/struggles with self-harm. If you are one of those people, you are strong and beautiful, always.
Phia Nov 2023
You will always be
My favorite form of self harm
Moony Oct 2023
For my 11th birthday I bought myself the prettiest gift.
A paintbrush.
It was a shiny silver.
When I used it for the first time, I felt relieved.
The burdens fell off my shoulders onto my wrists.
I created the most beautiful crimson artworks.
I packed my burdens into fine lines, drawing the red of their weight.
I am an artist.
I am covered in my creations, from my wrists to my thighs.
Now, forever.
Psychosa Oct 2023
I watched as your stabbed yourself with daggers.
Your blood ran cold down your shaking body.
I tried to remove the daggers from you,
but you could not let go.
You were addicted to the pain that they brought you.

I tried to mend your wounds,
but you would **** them open,
drenching yourself in your own suffering.

I tried to give you the space to heal,
but to you only pain is real.
So you self-inflict
in hopes that no one will see the skin behind your scars.

So I watched you die before my eyes.
is Sep 2023
In a bedroom in small-town Pennsylvania,
you’ll find an unmade bed,
a pile of clothes on the floor—
clean but not folded,
open drawers and dusty shelves,
a desk in the corner of the room
with pictures laid across it.

When I caught my first fish at six.
I held it at arm’s length by the fishing line
to avoid the slimy scales,
a frown on my face from being forced
to sit silently in the cold.

When my family went to Marco Island,
my sister and I, sifting sand for the best seashells
in our matching swimsuits and hats.
Mom and dad’s fights forgotten in our fun.

High school graduation
posing with my best friend since first grade,
diplomas in one hand and an extra cap held between us
because not everyone survived all four years.

Move-in day at college,
sitting on my raised bed with a grey comforter
and two decorative pillows the color of cotton candy.
Sweat on my brow from southern humidity
and moving furniture without the help of a father.

The pictures are merely snapshots
that lack the full story.

How I learned what it meant for love to fall apart
when I was eight years old.
My sister warned me before it happened,
told me what a divorce was.
I mistook her for joking until they called us upstairs.
Dad cried when they told us, but mom held her tears
until the day he left. The sounds of her cries
escaping from behind a closed door.
“This doesn’t mean we don’t love each other.”
But that’s exactly what it meant.

How I was taught by my father that love is conditional,
and I repeatedly needed to prove myself
through good grades and unquestioning obedience.
Forced to stay home to spend time with the family,
sitting wordlessly on the couch while he watched TV.
Made guilty for wanting to spend time with friends
because that somehow meant that I was a bad daughter.
It’s funny—I never asked myself if he was a good father.

If you look harder at the bedroom,
you’ll find journals filled with bitter words,
screws from disassembled pencil sharpeners, loose razors, and Aquaphor,
food wrappers stuffed in hidden places,
a closet brimming with junk and pairs of shoes,
evidence of a story untold. Until you.
Phia Aug 2023
As the smoke clears
I am left with the perfect image
Of the destruction I caused.
Here the air is heavy,
The weight of my mistakes
occupies all of the space in my lungs.
And tonight,
As I stand alone,
The urge to etch my flaws
Into my skin
Overwhelms me.
It craves the kiss of cold metal.
I am fighting a never ending battle
And my body keeps the score.
tumbledry Aug 2023
Like my pair of safety scissors
I leave the mesh on my window intact
My outlets remain hidden in their covers
My keys tucked away in a different drawer each day.
The pills down the toilet drain only to be bought over and over again.
The razors tossed out after a longing caress
My weighted blanket anchoring me to my bed
Pulling all the stops to keep my mind from repeating “I’d be better off dead”.
Phia Aug 2023
My scars run deep.
Memories of pain etched
Where the metal kisses skin.
Even though the pain
Doesn’t seep,
The guilt flows heavy
With the red waves
And shame wraps it’s arms
Around me like a blanket
As I stand gripping the scissors
Willing the world to just
tumbledry Jun 2023
Do you know what it means to kiss the scars of a broken girl
and then ask her to forget your love?  
That night your kisses were slow
You said show me I want to see them all
One by one your soft lips brushed each scar marring my body
I’ve always held on to that feeling
Every moment in the restroom staring down at my thighs
Lightly tracing my finger remembering
How gentle and kind you were.
How can you ask me to forget?
My scars itch with betrayal
They trusted your touch.
It feels as though I need to peel my very skin
Start anew with flesh untouched by you
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