Trust me, I know it.
I knew it before you said it
before you knew it
before you even thought it.

I wasn't always like this and you know that.
I was vibrant and happy and free and reckless and joyous and dramatic and full and...
and...
and everything was beautiful.

But I know I'm not like that anymore.
Life has pushed me to the ground, held me there and made me watch.
I watched the life disappear from my eyes.
You didn't see it.

You didn't see me looking at myself in the mirror everyday.
Watching the confidence and light drain from my body like water running through a riptide.

So, yes.
Yes, I know I'm not, in your words, "The right head, no offence."
The polite way of calling me ****** in the head.
I know that.
I watch it get worse and worse evey day.
Until my clock stops ticking.

Cleaning up my room.
Open a wardrobe that’s been closed for too long.
As old sketchbooks stack on the floor,
my hand reaches to touch a sharp blade
and a knife makes old memories bloom.
Everything feels red as words leave my throat,
the music on my headphones far away,
my body lost somewhere a few years ago.

A kid stealing a knife from the kitchen,
keeping it hidden and close out of instinct,
like the cat that stops eating when he feels death’s approach.

No scars fill my arms now,
but sometimes their texture reminds me of that time,
where I was a push away from falling into an addiction
that spills blood out of your system like pain went with it
and leaves marks on it that no words can take away.

I was so young barley double digits
All I needed was a hug
To be told everything would be ok
Nothing seemed ok
I was changing
Everyone was changing
I stopped worrying about if my bike tires had air
Instead I started worrying about my hair
Why were people staring
I worried about what was wrong with me
Why was I like this
too loud
Too sensitive
Too different
I needed a hug
But I picked up the blade
I need to feel something
I wanted the pain
I was 10 when the lines began
I was just a child
Barley double digits
Who reached for the blade
Instead of reaching for some help

The measurements will never be right
The numbers on the scale will never be small enough
The clothes are always too big or too tight

Eating anything is eating too much
Excuses like I already ate and such
Until I'm pretty there is something more important to feed

They won't like me unless I run
Mile after mile it is never enough
Try to convince myself that it's fun
To push my limits even if it's tough

I never look right
Nothing is flattering
I'm not going to fight
That my hope is shattering

I got thinner and they started to talk
The compliments came
They don't know the road I had to walk
I have no one to blame

I wanted to starve
Like it wouldn't do me harm
They dont notice when I skip meals
Until I show the pain on my arm

I need friends not food
Not thinking about it is key
I just cant change my mood

They know what's going on
But they will never know how deep
The knife goes when I see something wrong
Then again depression will start to seep

Every time I eat I feel like I fail
After there is always a blood trail
I won't eat until I’m frail
I really do despise The Scale

Somebody told me I could fly.
I believed them.
Somebody told me I was worth it.
I believed them.
Somebody told me I had a purpose.
I believed them.
Somebody told me I was beautiful.
I believed them.
Somebody told me I was loved.
I believed them.

Or so I told them.
Because the demons in our HEADS never shut up.
They never rest, so in turn, neither do we.
They draw out their ugly claws.
You feel them dig deep into your skin, locking into place.
They see you as their first love.
The kind of love no one ever forgets.
And they SCREAM.
Ear piercing screams driving straight down into your SOUL.
And silence...
Then...

Someone tells you you can fly.
"You'll fall."
Someone tells you you're worthy.
"You're worthless."
Someone tells you you have a purpose.
"You're useless."
Someone tells you you're beautiful
"You're uglier than us."
Someone tells you You're loved.
"By the darkness lurking in your head. Grab the knife, honey."

My hand moves left to right,
over a blank piece of paper,
smudging what I write.
As my sleeve
absorbs my pens red ink,
The edge of my white sweatshirt
turns a shade of light pink.
"just roll up your sleeves"
I can't, not even a little bit.
It may not seem like a big deal to you,
but that's where I hide my secrets.
You may be okay with sharing yours,
But I try to forget mine exist.
You write your secrets in a diary,
and I write mine on my wrist.

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