I've been waiting...
For the right moment.
Want sure for what.
But now I know it.

Been close many times before.
Ready to scatter my brains and soar.
Better than a deep sleep... Never more.
Unfettered, emptiness galore.

1
2
3
4

Squeeze
Bang
Splat
That's what I've been waiting for.
Shitzweak
Rett 17h
Do you ever feel like you want sadness?
Like wet wood that would like to be lit
But it will burn to death if it was
Do you ever want to have a feeling
With tears running down your cheek
Because it is the only way to know
You can still feel?

Do you ever just want to feel like
Your jumping into an ocean of ink
Because it's better than just feeling "fine"?
Or "good"? Or even anger, because you know
That anger will eventually turn into shame
For the things you said
Or the words you didn't utter

Do you ever just hunger for a feeling
of choking on emotion that left you
a voice mail and you were too scared
to answer but your ready to call back
Do you ever just want to crumble into
The flames of depression because
it's more comfortable than the feeling
of your emotions withering away to ash


Do you ever just want to drown
in your tears, because its better than
feeling numb to the events in your life
Or lack thereof, so school and therapy
are the only interactions with humans you have
And going out of that room will be
meaningless because you have no
plans today like always so the only
Event you can have is
A panic attack or feeling suicidal

Do you ever just want to be depressed
Because it is easier to identify
Like wet wood that would like to be lit
Because burning alive is better than the chill of just surviving
Wrote this a while ago
Gunta 23h
When you feel your legs numb at the edge
It feels like you’re going to fall any moment now
You can’t just believe yourself that you’ll stay there
But it’s the same as life
If we continue we stay, if we let ourselves we fall
It’s just our feelings making us believe that we must fall
But actually there’s still a chance to take a step back from the edge
You will start to see your feelings becoming weaker
You can open up your mind more
And finally you can see the true meaning of falling
None of my friends
     Wanna talk to me,
So I'm just leaning
     On this balcony,
And I'm sheilding my eyes
     From the bright city,
None of my friends
     Ever talk to me,

Man, that sidewalk,
Lined in chalk,
Another dead body-
Cause they couldn't talk,
And another crying family,
And their world, rocked,
Another empty bed-
And a door, locked,
Their son, mocked,
His clock, stopped,

None of your friends
     Wanna talk to you,
So you're just looking
     Out this window, too,
And you're counting your tears
     While you're feeling blue,
None of your friends
     Wanna talk to you.
Sienna 1d
In your weakest moment
it escapes the depths of hiding and engulfs your being;
the vulnerable will be reaped.

As presence does not hinder,
It hovers over the soul
reaching out to touch
coming to collect it's belonging
in a pursuit of descent.
Megan 1d
My therapist used to say that
I get the flashbacks because
I don't talk about it enough.

But how am I supposed to talk about it
when everyone tells me that my story has been made invalid
by the alcohol in my bloodstream,
and the fact that I laughed about it the next day?

We all have different ways to survive.

How was I supposed to process my emotions the morning after
when I had blood dripping down my legs,
standing in the 6am cold,
because shivering outside without a jacket
was far better than staying in a room with one of my rapists,
and the lingering smell of shame?

I am far too young to feel a pain like this.

A pain so heavy that my entire soul is flattened
by the weight I carry around.

A violation so evil
that I cannot help but leave my body -
it is no longer mine
but a vessel
that carries the blackness of my ache,
my thoughts that turn to ash when I try to say them out loud
and the demons that have possessed me.

Demons born from the three of you.

How can I continue
when I can still feel three pairs of unwanted hands,
      gripping,                                           ­         
hitting,                                        
bruising me                    
all at once?

How can I breathe
when I can still feel six eyes
on the most intimate parts of me,
every vulnerability and weakness?

How can I live
when I still have pieces of you
entangling yourselves around my bones,
suffocating my heart?

I thought that by burying it all deep into myself -
every 'it' that you called me,
every bruise left on my skin,
every single thrust that tore me apart -
encased by my ribcage,
wrapped in skin that you made into paper,
I would be able to carry on.

I created my very own Pandora's box.

By you escaped;
every millilitre of your venom
is combined and coursing through my veins,
poisoning each one of my nerve endings.

I no longer see the same version of myself,
like looking in a broken mirror,
each fragment showing a different flaw, a different shame.
I am not me.

I am full of darkness.
My mind is sick,
I am filled to the brim with hate and anger and inescapable sadness.
You made me into a monster
that leaves fingerprints of acid on everything I touch.

Is there anything worse
than seeing six vitriolic eyes
everywhere I go?

Is there anything worse
than your visits to me when I sleep,
waking up drenched in sweat because of the horror?

Is there anything worse
than feeling a constant lump of anxiety in my throat,
whenever I'm left alone? -
because please
please
please don't feed me to the wolves again!

Is there anything worse
than starving myself because
no-one will ever love me unless I'm thin because
I'm too riddled with trauma?

Is there anything worse
than blaming myself so much
that I started hurting myself again?

No-one ever tells you that trauma lasts forever,
but I'm learning that now.
Because it's been ten months and twenty-two days since
the three of you destroyed me...

And you've been destroying me every day since.
If you've read this to the end, THIS is the destruction caused by rape - stop injustice anywhere you can
Pain is only temporary,
It only lasts until you die.
But the greatest pain of all,
Is losing a heart a little too early
To a pain that doesn’t go,
To a heart that truly believes
Death is the only cure.
So don’t go before your time,
Be as strong as you are.
And go through the pain until it ends,
Cause at the end of every rainbow
Their is a little bit of gold.
I've been thinking more about you recently.
...No, not like that. Don't get the wrong idea,

Again.

You come back into my mind like the text notifications that would light up my phone.
Only this time I can't press the block button,

Again.

It's an odd feeling, a sort of confusion that gives me anger.
But I don't want to try and figure it out,

Again.

I was vulnerable, alone, suicidal, depressed, and you knew that.
You took advantage of me with your manipulative "I love you"'s

Again.

I fell for it, I was weak, and I loved you for awhile, I truly did.
Until you made me take off my clothes and give you a show,

Again.

It was intimate, for the first couple of months I thought.
But you began seeing me more as your sexual object,

Again.

But I wanted to believe you loved me.
So I opened my skin for you to make your home in me,

Again.

Did you deserve that? At the time, I thought it was only right.
But giving you my organ home was my mistake,

Again.

The cycle continued, manipulation of sex for my dignity.
My identity was at stake, I was scared to hear you say,

"Again."

Silenced by threats that would expose me more than the skin I showed you.
So I, weak and stupid, fed into your fantasies

Again.

Emotional turmoils arose if I didn't give you what you wanted.
And I, depressed and scared of being alone, endured the hurtful words,

Again.

I had let your words define my worth.
I was nothing more but just someone who deserves this hurt,

Again.

There's a reason I stayed, but I feel like it was more rather for me than you.
I feel like some days I wanted this pain, or that I deserved it,

Again.

My trust was tattooed on your hand, my heart tattooed on your foot.
Never realizing the damages you left in me,

Again.

As you began to rattle my rib cage to wake me,
Asking me for more, and more, until I bled out my soul,

Again.

Forceful grabbing, soulless insults, groaning and yelling,
Then you'll leave, high and dry, for hours until you were ready to start,

Again.

My body shakes, my mind in disarray, buzzed like bees in a can.
I wept as I had to bandage myself,

Again.

You broke me as easily as a porcelain doll.
And I laid there, numb, as you kept moving your hips faster,

Again.

My body turned cold, as my heart packed its bags to leave.
I neglected myself, all for you, but you just wanted to keep going

Again.

You probably didn't care that I said I couldn't feel a thing.
You covered my mouth, ripped off my clothes, and forced yourself through,

Again.

Stating that I'll feel you inside, I'll feel our love in my chest.
But I cried and all I could feel was the yearning to slit my neck,

Again.

I had many breaking points, but none the worst as the last.
I was ready to give my tired body to the Reaper's arms,

Again.

And so I did, I left without a care of whatever you were going to do.
No matter how many threats and insults you shoved into my ear once

Again.

You wanted my hollow body that echoed your voice of "Take it off for me,
Again."
And I stab myself through my stomach, slice myself in half, rip you from the grip you had around my heart, snip your gnarly fingers from my brain, and say

"No."
Getting closure of the abuser I stayed with for 8 months.
Blake 1d
There is absolutely no way that works.
“Cheer up.”
“It’s all in your head.”
“Just drink more water!”
“Meditation helps me when I’m sad.”
Stop it. Just stop it. Nothing is as simple as that.
See, when you’re like me, nothing is simple. Can you guess why? That’s right! Depression, anxiety, stress, sensory overloads, exhaustion, insomnia - and meditation, you say?
Tell someone with lung cancer, “Oh, it’s all in your lungs. Just stop having cancer!” Can’t do that, can you? It’s not right, it doesn’t work that way. Maybe if you stopped treating disorders like emotions, and more like physical illnesses, you wouldn’t deserve a punch in the nose every second of every day of your life.
Death isn’t as simple as 1-2-3, and neither is life. Stop trying to sum it up in a sentence or two. The chemicals IN MY BRAIN tell me to feel, to hurt, to die. Don’t you think I’ve tried to solve it on my own? To get help? Therapy boosts my anxiety to the roof. Medication makes me impulsive and angry. But I still do it anyway, because, hey, it’s not gonna fix itself.
Oh, go on, continue to joke about it. Tell me you want to end it all because your mom yelled at you for not doing the dishes. Maybe I could take a whole buncha’ pills, I told myself, on January 2nd. Perhaps I should get a lighter, a knife, or chemicals, I told myself, on January 16th. Maybe drowning wouldn’t be so bad, I told myself, on February 20th. I even tried it.
Tell me you have OCD because you like your room clean, or your notes organized. OBSESSIVE-COMPULSIVE DISORDER is about repeating thoughts and actions. Obsessive-compulsive people are usually messier than neurotypicals. The handwriting, the organization - it’s not present.
Stop. Shut up. You can’t say anything about this unless you have the papers.
I bite my cheeks down until my mouth foams with blood and saliva.
Intentionally or not, I love the copper taste.
My eyes can only see the normality of it all.
But to others, I look like I need help.

I grit my teeth until they crack and fall out of my lips.
The blood gushes out, fuck I can't get enough of this.
This pain that my body seeks to self destruct.
It's harmful pleasure that emits from my nerves.

I chew at the sides of my mouth as it leaks out with blood.
So bittersweet, I can't believe my body produces this.
I guess it's just me trying to calm my nerves.
I can't stop shaking while I type these words.

I scratch my left hand until I peel off the skin.
Through my muscle tissues and my leaking red veins, I can see the end.
I feel my eyes go wide and turn crazed.
I'm not suicidal, I'm just a mess, okay?

I dig my finger nails deep into my palms.
Little crescent like shapes of a blood red moon.
I feel like I have the world in my hands.
But is it dangerous to give that power to an insane man?

I punch erratically until my knuckles turn blue and red.
Licking off the residue of blood stained cement.
I feel the adrenaline rushing through me.
Punching the ground until my skeleton gets a taste to.

I slit my arms to perfect red dotted lines of 11.
There's a specific reason for that number.
But it's a secret you'll never find, so I just laugh.
While you watch me split my skin in half.

I bite my lips until they to begin to bleed.
If I do this enough, maybe I won't have to ever speak.
I suck until my lips turn dry.
And I penetrate through my skin with my teeth once again.

I chew my nails down to the core.
Watching the red water bleed through the cracks of my fingers.
The stinging sensation that makes my chest tense.
But floods my face with a warm, bright red.

The demons have already chewed down to my bones.
It's slow, but painful, but I love their tongue sliding on my flesh.
Sinking their teeth to rip me to shreds.
And so I bite down more and savor the taste.
I am self-destructing.
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