I will never
hide
my story.
perhaps
a warning,
or a precaution of what not
to do.
but frankly,
I wouldn’t change much.
It really did make me stronger.
allowed me more empathy,
let me see
into a little
bit of horror
others go through.

don’t you dare
judge scars,
be grateful
you’ve been
trusted
with their
story.

Scars fading away,
Along with the memories
Of the hurt and decay,
The endless stories,
Coming back fresh,
Regaining their life on paper,
Carving into the flesh,
Disappearing later.

It hurts…

It hurts to look in the mirror
And see the thin white strands cross my leg

It hurts to see my ribs in the mirror
When I look at myself

It hurts to look at my face
To see tears falling and the bags below my eyes

It hurts to see the blade
When i close my eyes

It hurts to think about the blade
To feel the urge to find it

It hurts
It hurts
it hurts

But it hurts way more to stop
But it hurts way more to be clean
But it hurts way more to see the scale tick up’

something hurts
and it hurts way more

is it too much to ask
for my scars never to fade?
is it too much to ask
for you to care that they're there?

that once upon a time i did that
and i didn't care if you saw,
but now when i do it, i do it for you
with the hope that you'll care enough to notice me

and notice that i'm falling
and it's not just for you,
but my body is failing itself, and i'm going into that place again
the dark well that i can't climb out of.

i'm proud of my scars;
they show that i was hurting and dying
and yet now they're just scars and not still
bleeding.

why can't you even look at me?
why can't you even care a tiny bit?
you're killing me slowly,
but i know it's all my fault.

i'm sorry things are like this,
and i ****** it all up,
i'm sorry i'm like this,
sad, manic, dead inside.

i still want to show you all my scars
and i want to fall apart in your arms.

healed scars litter my trashed body. my skin a mural, a testament, to my battles. i used to do it to punish. now i do it to feel something, anything.

oh to continue to cut
deeper and deeper
until i am no longer human.
but bones.

humans are no more than their secrets.
cutting into them reveals how disgusting or beautiful they truly are

i am a horrible person

I trace the blade like a promise,
carve my pain into skin—
maybe if I break enough,
you’ll remember how to hold me.

Maybe if I bleed,
you’ll come back,
just to see
if there’s anything left to save.

red is the blood that pours down his arms
red is the flush on her cheeks
red is the flower that they wear on their charms
red stains my carpet for weeks

wine and women
power hungry; driven
red controls life.

red is the heart
hurting the boy
pumping too hard and fast

red is the truck
that took them away
the world speeding past

red is hungry
red is power
red is strong.

Once I was A poem; lines of love and hope
Now I'm just forgotten  art;
I can't remember when my wrists turned into paintings with line cuts and scars
looking less and less like wrists and more like a canvas
But my scars aren't art and neither am I;
I cut and cut and cut and cut until my arms are crosses and jagged lines
This life is not for me

I am paper : I'm meant to be cut
I am just a match; I'm meant to be burnt
I am just a balloon; my Heart is meant to be popped

And I wish I could fix this
I wish I was okay
I wish
I wish
I wish
But it doesn't matter
Because I don't
Stuck in a whirlpool of my own pain

this is because i am...
I am a artist
I am a poet
I am a cutter
I am a starver
I am a mess of scars
And broken pieces
But the problem is
I am me
When I look in the mirror
All I see is a mistake
A little mess
Of pain And starving
And the scars all along my body
A problem
A smudge on humanity
But that's who I am
I guess I have to accept that