Words, as beautiful as they are,
Can't capture the feeling of relief
After harming the skin you were given
By "God".
They'll never capture the guilt
After putting the tool away,
The feeling of being cared for while you clean your own cuts,
The promise of never doing it again,
And the betrayal of your own words

A sharp edge
And a soft person
Are not a good combination.

Be brave.
You already are.
Look at what you've made it through.
The wounds of your past have healed.
The seemingly endless chapter has ended,
And those bruises have faded.
The battle, you survived,
And you are still here.
Be brave.

A paper cut, a minor fray,

A reason to bleed, to hurt, to sway,

From the pain of everyday life,

A desperate attempt to take control, to thrive.
A broken glass, a spilled cup of tea,

A justification to cut, to set me free,

From the anguish that I couldn't define,

A misguided attempt to soothe my mind.
But with each cut, a scar would remain,

A constant reminder of the pain,

A symbol of the struggles I couldn't face,

A cry for help, a desperate, silent pace.
One day, I hit rock bottom, it's true,

I realized that I didn't have to hurt anew,

I sought help, I found a guiding light,

Therapists, a friend, a beacon in the night.
With time, with patience, with love and care,

I learned to cope, to heal, to repair,

The wounds that I had inflicted on my skin,

The scars that would remain, a reminder to begin.
I learned to breathe, to meditate, to calm,

To find solace in the present, to let go of the balm,

I discovered that I was stronger than I thought,

That I could face my fears, my doubts, my faults.
The minor inconveniences still came and went,

But I no longer let them dictate my intent,

I chose to rise above, to find a way,

To heal, to grow, to seize a brand new day.
My scars will always be a part of me,

A reminder of the journey I've been through, you see,

But they no longer define me, no longer control,

I am free, I am healed, I am whole.

Roses are red
And so is my blood
You made cuts romantic
But it’s not called love

TW : references to triggering topics below

My art is not considered normal
It’s made of fine lines
The lines form rows
They tell a story
Of whom I once was
During the tears
Those tears not only lasted for year but also still last
My fine lined art has recently come to a end
Or more of a rest
Because it may start again
My fine lined art is not art
But a way to cope
A way to breathe
Yet my skin bleeds whenever I draw those lines
The fine lines are considered ugly
To the eyes of society
they will leave scars forever
But my scars are not ugly they tell a story
Of my fine lined art.

I feel like a stranger in my own skin,
like a paper marked by hands that shouldn’t have been.
You painted on me with borrowed strokes,
colors I never asked for, lines I never spoke.

I tried to erase it all,
scrubbed until I bled.
But no matter how I try,
the red remains instead.

Why do I feel this shame,
when none of it was mine to claim?
Or is that just another lie—
one you left behind in my name?

Go on, throw another shade,
brush another lie across my frame.
Add one more mark on my arm—
pretend you never meant me harm.

Are you satisfied now?
Does silence taste sweet?
Is it peace you feel,
or just a hollow retreat?

The stains, they never fade,
they follow me—like ghosts that stayed.
I feel ***** in a way soap can’t cleanse,
not even the rain makes any sense.

I hope the paint on your hands never dries,
I hope guilt sleeps where your comfort lies.
And when you close your eyes,
may my tears echo in your skies.

My hands tremble still,
my voice quiet and thin.
You touched beauty and broke it—
I was never meant to let you in.

Run.
Let shame chase your steps.
Lie.
Wear your mask again.

Stain.
Things that were never yours to touch.
March.
Through lives you’ve broken too much.

Paint a little more.
Maybe that will hide the cracks.
Paint her, paint me—
but never give the colors back.

Your fingerprints are pressed on pages of my life,
you signed a name I never gave you the right.

Run.
Lie.
Scream.
Hide.

Paint.
Stain.
Break.
Divide.

Yo­u stole my innocence like ink on stolen lines.
Does your guilt whisper at night,
the way your memory haunts mine?