She looked at me and pulled the scissors out of my hands. Her eyes drift towards my arms. She says she never trusted me with anything sharp.

I have serrated edges
I need someone to keep me away from high places
They read my diary pages and look at me like my guts are hanging out
She tells me I'm made of glass and she is getting tired of existing as an ambulance

Sometimes I go out too deep
I put so many holes in the ship I can't believe it didn't sink
A zipper on each wrist,
a body scratched like an old disk.
I needed a life vest
I needed bandages
I needed sutures
I needed stitches

I wound up stranded
in a doctors office
where they asks how bad
it hurt on a scale of 1-10

I came with
THE SADNESS WAZ HERE
etched into my limbs
I scar like tree bark

Maybe
I never get better
The nurses used scotch tape to put me back together

I’ve got all my fingers,
The knife goes CHOP CHOP CHOP

If I miss the spaces in between,
My fingers will come off!

Slit, slit, slit, slit, slit, slit, slit,
I’m picking up the speed.

If I miss the spaces in between,
My wrists will surely bleed.

i am
just another stain
another ****** stain
on a shirt
on a bandage
dripping onto the floor
because no one caught it in time
another stain to wipe away

i am
just another mark
another ****** mark
on my bed
on my hands
dripping onto the floor
because it hurts to open my mouth
another mark that just won't scrub out

i am
just another cut
another ****** cut
on my arms
on my legs
dripping onto the floor
because feeling pain is better than feeling nothing
another cut that won't heal right

Tis the season to be dying
Not too jolly are the lines I'm writing
The hymns mimic my weeping soul
A tune strung with a broken bow

Frail lullabies drenched in sorrow
Wilting with the fading greens
We inhale clouds of dusty air
Cold and fragile as my spine

Tingling numbness in my heart
Like frost bites from within
The finale of an orchestra
An epilogue of sorts

Wintry hails in my disturbed mind
Raining like misfired bullets
From a shoddy gun
Burning letters into my hands

The poetry I craft not pretty
Lacking tales of sugarcoated reality
Mostly **** and somewhat edgy
Infused with truth and too much realitys

I can choose how heavily this weighs upon me

I can pick the weight pressing more and more upon my shoulders
Or I can pick feathers to carry

I can choose turmoil, churning me up from the inside
Or I can choose to walk in grace

I can pick minutes so long they never seem to end
Or I can pick days that slip through my fingers

I can choose a mind filled with a thousand games
Or I can choose saved brains

I can pick a heart heavy with all my cares
Or I can pick the promises of God.

I choose peace.