You wanna know what happened?
You see these scars?
Yeah, that’s me.
But you’re too scared to get close.
I can tell by the way your eyes flicker,
like you’re afraid I might break.
Spoiler alert:
I’m already broken.

They ask, “what’s happened?”
Like they want the story.
Like they care.

”Tried to take myself out.”
It’s not a sob story,
it’s a fact.
But they don’t get it,
don’t want to get it,
so I shrug it off,
say it casual,
like I'm talking about the weather.
Like I’m still not choking on the air in this room.

The other students?
They avoid me like I’m radioactive,
walk wide around my desk
like I’m a virus,
like my grief is something that can infect them.
And maybe it can,
but no one’s brave enough
to catch it.

Teachers?
They say, “are you okay?”
In that soft voice
like they’re trying to piece together
a jigsaw puzzle with no picture.
They look at me,
wait for me to cry,
wait for me to say something,
that makes it all make sense
but I’m not here for their comfort.
I just want them to stop acting like this is some mystery.
You can’t fix me with a question.

And my therapist?
Oh, she’s a real piece of work.
Digging, digging,
like there’s some treasure under all this rubble.
She keeps telling me,
”Let’s unpack that.”
Like I’m luggage.
Like I’m just some suitcase of sadness
that’ll be lighter if I open it up enough.
But it’s endless,
layers and layers of pain
and the more I peel back,
the more I realise
there’s no clean way to fix it.

I tell her what I think she wants to hear.
I say it,
because I’m tired of hearing myself say nothing.
But she’s not listening.
No one’s listening.

You wanna know what happened?
This is me.
This is what happened when you’re tired of waiting for someone to see you.
Tired of asking for help.
Tired of hoping the world will stop pretending you don’t exist.

Yeah, I tried.
Yeah, it didn’t work.
And that’s the punchline.
I’m still here.

But don’t worry.
You can keep avoiding me.
I don’t need your pity.
I don’t need your worried looks.
I’m fine.
I’m fine.
I’m fine.

And I’ll keep saying that
until it feels true.
Until I can believe it for myself.
Or until I can’t anymore.

But for now?
For now, I’m just the girl
with the scars on her arms,
and I’m here.
And that’s the part
you can’t ignore.

Oh, don’t worry—
I didn’t die.
What a relief, right?
Because that would’ve been
”a tragic mess to explain.”
That’s what she said, word for word.

Not, ”Im glad you’re okay.”
Not, ”You matter.”
Just— wow, what a mess that would’ve been in the boarding school bathroom.
As if I was just
another inconvenience to mop up.

Imagine that scene—
a ******* cold tile,
27 stitches worth of silence,
and not one ******* hug
when I came back.

My arm still hurts.
Parts of it are numb,
like the feeling crawled from my brain
into my skin.
Like my body’s trying to forget,
but my nerves won’t let me.
It’s sore and dead and too alive
all at once.

I’m fifteen.
But I feel ancient.
Like I’ve already lived
through a war no one talks about.

Step mother told me,
”No one's going to help you.”
“No one’s going to believe you.”
Like she was proud of that prophecy.
Like she wanted me to drown
just so she could say
”told you so.”

And Mum—
the original vanisher—
she looked at me
and threw down the match:
”I don’t want to be your mum.”

Cool.
Love that for me.
Really sets the tone
for a happy childhood, huh?

So now I live at school.
In a dorm, in a room,
in a body that won’t forget
the blood, the cold, the shaking hands,
the locked door.

They say,
“You’re going to get therapy soon.”
Like that’s supposed to fix
a life built out of
people who left.

What if I sit down
and say all the things
I’ve kept under my skin,
and they just blink?
What if I unwrap my wound
and they say
”Oh. That’s it?”

I write because it’s the only way
I don’t scream.
I rhyme because the truth
sounds less deadly in a rhythm.

And yeah—
if this poem makes you uncomfortable,
then good.
Let it.
Because I sat on that bathroom floor
and almost didn’t get back up,
and all they worried about
was who’d have to explain it.

So next time you say,
”You're lucky you didn’t go through with it,”
remember:
I already did.
I just happened to survive.

This room was taught to hold its breath,
When I return through sideways doors.
It never asks for confessions or depth—
Just witnesses how silence feels as thorns.

The world outside is daytime hinged.
But my world was stitched in neon dusk.
A phantom fang lives deep within
And bites each time I build my trust.

I move in patterns, accidentally bound—
In rituals of coping that lasted too long.
The hours know where I'll be found—
Beside myself, unwillingly wrong.

The ***** laundry I clean but don't.
A second shadow nailed at my heel.
The lamp that needs a light disagrees.
Between being fake and being who I feel.

I keep it clean—or clean enough—
My eyes are dry; my voice is clear.
My morbid truth, dressed in common fluff.
Always finds a way to disappear.

The soul—if that’s still something I hold—
Is brined in need, like selfish sin.
This isn’t wanted or considered bold.
  It's survival masquerading as skin.

I never meant to dig this much,
My lack of harmony buried in song.
But a body that's balanced upon a crutch
Is still a body—just not as strong.

I’ve made a friend with myself detached,
Though he eats a lot more than he feeds.
Whispers like he knows he's an accident.
This teaches me, what my own silence means

The habits aren't even the worst of me—
It’s what remains when they're gone.
The way my lungs choose not to breath.
Choosing not to breathe all on their own.

So, I exist in the lowercase,
Half-typed and never quite complete.
But even glitches need their place—
So here I am, on loop. On repeat…

I stopped naming days a while ago—
they blur like raindrops on a cracked lens.
Everything feels like an echo
of a moment that never begins.

I’m not living — I’m leftover.
A half-thought someone left behind.
Just a whisper under locked doors,
a glitch they pretend not to find.

My mirror forgets my face now.
It fogs up, refuses to see.
I trace a smile in the steam,
then wipe it off carefully.

My body’s a punishment I wake up in,
every curve a curse, every breath a dare.
They say “You’ll grow into yourself,”
but I’m scared of what’s even there.

My bedroom light flickers like it pities me.
I don’t turn it off—it feels like a friend.
Sometimes I stare at the ceiling
and wonder when all this will end.

School is a stage I perform at.
My backpack holds more secrets than books.
Teachers read me like I’m blank paper,
like I’m nothing more than looks.

I speak less every week.
Even the silence feels bored of me.
I try to write myself into poems,
but the paper just stares blankly.

I write suicide notes in my head
like lullabies when I can’t sleep.
I imagine a world without me
and it doesn’t even weep.  

No one knocks on my door anymore.
They say I’m “just going through a phase.”
But I’m not going anywhere—
just sinking in quieter ways.

I think the stars forgot my name.
I don’t even wish on them now.
What’s the point in asking for light
when you’ve never been shown how?

I keep my razor in a pencil case—
It makes more sense that way.
At least it writes something real
when my words won’t stay.

Tell me—what’s worse:
To scream and be silenced,
or to whisper your last goodbye
and still be unseen in the silence?

I don’t want a grave or flowers.
Just maybe a song without my name.
Let me go like a breath you didn’t mean—
quick, quiet, forgotten.
No blame.

𝙲𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚞𝚝, 𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚢 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚕,
𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊.
𝙰𝚜 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖,
𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚎.

𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚏𝚊𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚔𝚎,
𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝’𝚜 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝙶𝚊𝚣𝚎,
𝚈𝚎𝚝 𝙸 𝚍𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚙𝚝𝚑𝚜 within
𝚖𝚞𝚕𝚝𝚒𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚝𝚢'𝚜 𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚣𝚎.

𝚆𝚊𝚜 𝙸 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚟𝚒𝚐𝚘𝚛
𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 long 𝚒𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚌𝚕𝚒𝚖𝚋?
𝙸 𝚊𝚖 𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 my 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚠.
𝙸 𝚊𝚖 𝚜𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚝 my 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚎.

𝚂𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍 remain 𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍.
My 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚛𝚝,
It 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚖𝚢 shaky 𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎
𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚗 𝚒𝚝𝚜 failing 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝.

𝙻𝚎𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚐𝚊𝚣𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚘𝚡
𝚘𝚏 my 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎'𝚜 𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚎.
𝙴𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚏𝚕𝚞𝚡 𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 a 𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝,
𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚜 a 𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝.

𝚃𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝙸𝚖 𝚜𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 the 𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚍
𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 the 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚘𝚛 𝚍𝚒𝚛𝚝 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍.
𝙸 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚔 𝚊 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚎, 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚗.
𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚜 𝚐𝚘 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍

𝙾𝚑, 𝚒𝚖𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚕 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚎 divine,
Gift my 𝚏𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚒𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍.
𝙲𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚒𝚝 down in𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 body
𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚍.

𝙷𝚘𝚠 𝙸 𝚏𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚍𝚊𝚢 that's 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚝,
Living only to 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚎.
𝙸 am at odds. I'm a division.
I am a soul 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚊 𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎.

De𝚊𝚏𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎, let it 𝚙𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚌𝚎
𝚖𝚢 𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖s 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕,
𝙸 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚢𝚘𝚞 can see the 𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚒𝚜
𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 in 𝚖𝚢 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚕.

And w𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑,
𝙼𝚢 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚑,
Gift my life to meet your eyes.
L𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚢 on, 𝚋𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚢.