I used to tear myself apart
And bleed blue butterfly wings
To pause my torment.
My life had become pure survival,
On creating something beautiful
Out of a dreadful loneliness.
My life had become a horrific masterpiece.
No one understood- those blue butterfly wings,
Kept me alive.
I used to tear myself apart.
Slice, to release my anguish.
But a constant, it always was-
Lingering, waiting,
For the blue butterfly wings to vanish.
For me to rip myself apart.
Again, and again, and again.
At times it seemed
My suffering never ended.
These days are different,
For when those blue butterfly wings
Bleed out my skin,
They never mature to red I devour them
To have lasting serenity.
Anguish will not ruin me again.
Because,
I used to tear myself apart.
This poem is describing how it felt to cut while I was depressed. I cut to take out my anger and sadness on myself. It ruined me and "helped" me at the same time. Again, any feedback would be appreciated :)
