I didn’t get the memo
to evolve -
stop sticking my hands
into the fresh-fire,
as if some part
of my visceral mania
wants to ****** my knuckles
with the ashes of Prometheus.

Every day that I don’t crash my car
is a white-hot remnant
of the suffocation of boredom,
like my life is on pause
until I’m nose down in a gutter
or in a line that I keep trying to cross.

There’s evaporated acid rain
condensing within every hangover,
each time the sun
rises; I rip down my fingernails
climbing to reach it,
gasping down
at the pulsating impulse
to make something terrifying
out of paper maché
and broken bottles
and bruised ego.

In every grave, there’s an I,
subtly watching
for the apotheosis;
a moment of sickly-yellow violence
igniting once more
any excuse for a fight
for fame,
for a feeling.

i hate people more than
i hate myself...expect you
you're a good one

i don't understand
why you hate the person you...
are my golden hour

How many times will I wash my face to feel satisfied with the work Ive put in?
How many mirrors will I have to look in until I’m comfortable in my own skin?
Will the weight of the world be lifted off if I start at the gym?
Are all the troubles I face, a reflection of the **** that I am?
Or no, are they just here? a constant reminder that if I interfere, I’ll just be more tired, more full of what I will fear, if I lose control of stopping....

I'm jealous of those people
Who end their days so well
They don't have to think twice
If they are living in hell

I live constantly in pain
always feeling agony
I don't feel sorry for myself
I made myself this tragedy

Every night before I sleep
I have a habit of overthinking
"I shouldn't have said that"
"Was I too much?"
"Am I really not enough?"
These thoughts linger my mind
As I feel forgotten and left behind
but I have no right to complain
I made my life this way

white surfaces flash in fluorescent lighting –

this is no opus, heaving on cold bathroom tiles,

blood and grain against porcelain,

convulsing creature in all its grotesque obloquy:

bleary and snotting. four-walled, windowless, antiseptic vivarium;

life crawls outside. it thrives, it devours, it fortifies.

inside, here, it repulses. ****** effluvium of all kinds.

sharp shrieks of skin across glossed floor, tears soak

before the cliff of the jaw. nothing stays.

wiping drool off the sterile sink and sweat off my knotted back.

snarls choking into sobs, sobs gasping for air.

this is no opus; blackening from corners,

the repugnant vignette held between fingernails –

for the contagious odium of the resigned abhorrent

bleeds and drips and stains.

neglect and rejection strewn like pearls,

pearls, worth nothing, feeling everything.

a fly buzzes in the stark fluorescent light,

and blackness climbs in. blackness consumes.

Pile stone after stone upon my chest
I deserve not the breath that i draw
Brittle bones house a pulse ever softer
As they splinter, caress
With the grace of the moon descending
And force of the guillotine's blade
May the echoes of my death rattle fall upon deaf ears
And be swallowed by the lapping waves

May my bones please the hounds
May my flesh feed the ground
May my heart cease its ache
May the sun rise again

Oh sweet sleep
Still and unending
A calm descends upon the embers of being
The coals cratering my eternal home
As deep as need be to bury these shameful bones

feel the burning in your chest and enjoy it
the pain, the tightness, the lack of air
you deserve to choke on it
now, dont pretend like you care

sinful silly girl when will you learn
you create chaos wherever you go
you can never escape these burns
so dig in deeper, nice and slow

is self harm still self harm if its emotional?
and do you even know why you trigger yourself?
what a dumb baby *****
stop ******* asking for their help

**** in the horrors of your mind
that's it, breathe the hatred into your veins
inject yourself with your own lies
like an ****** addict just numb the pain

The mirror wavers,
I see a blurry image
I want to touch her,
to change her
A tear runs down her face,
as she returns to my mind, her place.

I look down, ashamed,
ashamed of my own flesh
Disgusted at myself,
hating my body's existence
Perfection is my aim,
the product of my shame.

When will I become what I want,
what they want, what they must have
Will I become noticed? Loved?
Will they see me as my dream?
I cry when I ask why,
why must my spirit die?

I try to reach her,
try to save her
But she won't hear a word,
and I lose hope as she slips away
When the strips run crimson on her wrist,
I'll know it was I do did assist.

When I look for her, she is gone,
but when I don't, she's there
Saying things to my mind,
Things I don't want to hear.

Because if she only loved herself,
if I loved me for me
That small, sad girl inside my head,
would gently cease to be.

the Terror was tall, the opposite of me

she growled out harsh, menacing truths

and spit at me with contempt

"nobody cares or gives any concern

towards your golden sadness trailing down your cheek

towards the frill and layers of emotion pouring from your pen

stop crying

stop writing."

she left me gritting my teeth and clenching my palms

but no tears would come

no words would come

the Terror had taken my weapon of sanity and destroyed it

which shattered me into ****** pieces on the ground