zeebee 3d
i've walked around
with an open wound in my chest
for years.

i've been ever so careful
to wipe up the puddles
of blood i
leave in my wake.
i have to.

this wound,
this open wound,
has been festering
for years.

it was wrought first
by a wooden stake,
dripping with grass-green poison,
when i was still too young
to know that
this open wound
shouldn't have been there
at all.
i don't quite remember
the first time i looked
down at my own chest
and saw my own heart,
beating and dripping blood
peeking through an open wound.

it hurt.
it hurt IT HURT it hurt.
it hurt so, so badly.

as the years passed,
and this wound
was inflicted
again and
again and
again and
again and
again and
again and
again and
again and
again and
again.
it was torn open day after day
rotted and infected
it exposed my ribs
it exposed my lungs
it exposed my heart
it exposed my soul.

but. now.
today's the first day
that instead of letting it be torn deeper
i put on a band-aid.

this open wound,
i've never felt it heal.
and now that i am starting to,
it seems more painful
and sore
than ever.
Stella 3d
Words spoken in anger
Are words spoken true.
When you yelled at me,
“You’re worthless”
I knew it to be true.
I’m faced with that thought
Every
Single
Day.
Everything you yell,
I already know.
I know I’m worthless
I know I don’t deserve the life I live
I know I’m a burden.
You constantly yelling it,
Just justifies it.  
The one who is supposed to protect me,
Nurture me,
Help me,
Was the driving force in my fall from the light.
Even after you quit yelling,
I know you spoke true,
And you don’t actually care what I feel.
You just try to apologize to save face.
Maybe one day,
You’ll know what you did to me,
But today is not the day.
Yeah, I tried. I wrote this after I had a yelling match with my mom...
Anyways, i hope you like it! Thanks for reading.
zeebee 5d
Your promises
keep me alive.
Your commandments
saved me - literally, i might add.
if it weren't for You, i would
be dead.

i still do.
want to be dead, that is.
the urge never quite goes away.
i live with it like
a life sentence,
except i never actually committed
the murder.

does not killing myself
make me a coward or a hero?
does not killing myself
make me selfless or selfish?
Tøast Apr 8
A bubblegum girl and a toxic boy,
You sweetened my life, but I pushed you away.
Peeled you off my shoe and threw you in the gutter.
Now I'm missing your bubbles and everything about you.
Well, I have no cash to buy anymore, and no energy anyway.
So ill sit here without my bubblegum girl,
In this blank page, I have created for myself.
voodoo Apr 4
What was it about omnipresence that appealed to me

so much that I destroyed myself -

one mountain at a time, one boundary at a time -

until the alarms stopped going off at breaches?

The magpies don't sing when they're sad, so what am I

when I laugh at myself for crying?

Who am I looking for when my pillows waft voiceless lullabies

from a bed half-empty? (half yours, half mine,

and I don't know which one's missing.)

What was it about hedonism that disgusted me

so much that my body rejected kindness -

every peace offering, every affectionate touch -

until it could no longer hold itself together?

Metaphors, like escaped prisoners, running for a life anywhere that isn't here,

anywhere that isn't me,

and I fold and break into myself

in muted, nondescript implosions.
E McNamara Apr 4
I scream at her.
I tell her she's ugly
And too loyal,
That she doesn't work hard enough.
She is not enough.
She is nothing.
I wail at her
That she is too open,
Too soft,
Too forgiving.
That everything she gets
She deserves.
I scream awful tears and hit her.
She shatters-
I stare at my bloodied hands and broken mirror.
I am nothing.
Part 2 will be about gaining confidence. :)
Madolyn Mar 13
once upon a time
there was a girl
her hair was made of greasy threads
and her face was a horror onto itself
she scribbled on all her mirrors
trying to deny the monster she was
fake smiles and baggy clothes
locking herself in her isolated tower

then

she was told she talked too much
the flowers that flowed from her mouth shriveled
the light in her eyes would quickly die
she stitched her mouth closed multiple times
sometimes breaking free to rant, then cry
bleeding and stitching
bleeding and stitching
the repetition became a comfort by itself
every time she slipped up
it was the same
bleeding and stitching
a punishment she wished only on herself

once people began leaving her
for one reason or another
her mouth said "it's okay I understand"
but her head said it's all your fault
the ugly, idiot girl
ran away from her problems the best she could
stitching and itching
her arms became a red mess
she isolated and contemplated
who was going to leave her next

she loved and wanted
but kept hidden away
blaming every lost friend, every breakup
on her horrendous face and annoying personality

she hated her self-pity almost as much as herself
no man or woman would save her now
she was the only knight she had
and saving herself was too much of a privilege to grant
to such a mistake as her

so here we stand
this girl wasting away
don't pity her
she deserves it

it will probably always be this way
This is just an entire self-pity poem and I hate it so much, I might take it down later. But, oh well, I might as well put up this total crap rant piece.
Ray T Mar 12
If I told anyone I was raped, they wouldn’t believe me
I live in a world that preaches against hypothetical violence but when that shit comes into your life, everyone pushes it away.
I remember, no I don’t remember, I can barely remember his name.
I think it started with a “C”.
I think he was from Minnesota.
I think we were on a sixteen hour flight.
I think he smiled at me.
I think I smiled back, because why the fuck wouldn’t I.
I think he took that as a green light.
I think I shut my eyes to try and sleep.
I think he took that as a green light.
I am fifteen.
I think too little of his advances and trust society enough for me to rest.
I know that was a mistake.
I know I woke up to a blanket around me that wasn’t there before.
I know I woke up to his palm pressed in my pants.
I know I woke up screaming.
I know I couldn’t open my mouth.
I know I was screaming.
I know my mother was on that same plane three rows back.
I was fifteen.

I told my friends and they never believed me.
I haven’t told a soul since.
Why did he walk away from that unscratched while I have been carrying it around like a dead animal for three years?
Why do men think they can own what they can see?
Let me tell you what I can see:
Five people who asked me why I didn’t fight back.
Four people that were sitting around me and claimed to see him putting the cover on me, yet did nothing.
Three of his friends I saw later on the trip who praised him for what he accomplish upon seeing what I looked like.
Two eyes in the mirror that cry almost everyday.
And one crack in that same mirror that will never go away.
Thank you all for your responses. This feels so amazing to let it all out in my words. This is about my first experience.
Sounds of static,
fill my head,
a constant buzzing,
a growing dread

Cheerful laughs,
gloomy smiles,
anxiety and depression,
building piles

A mask, I wear,
to hide the old me,
few have met him,
few have the key

I hate myself,
though no one knows,
they only see my screen,
a happy face shows

I’m ashamed of who I am,
and the mask that I wear,
the things that I’ve done,
and the things that I’ve shared

No one can see my pain,
and honestly, I’m okay with that,
no one needs to worry,
to think I’m but a spoiled brat

My mask is my lore,
my mind, impaired,
my heart, fractured,
but I’m okay, I swear
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