Jessy 19h

I’m doing it
I’m finally doing it
But please don’t say
you’re proud of me
Please don’t say
you’re happy for me
Because then I will feel
Like I’m doing it for
Not for

All I want you
To say is

Seema 2d

This rain
Washes my pain
Cools my head
Hydrates my brain
Dilutes my tears
And drains my fears
We no longer together
It's been many years
Suddenly he shows up
With his coffee cup
And my scars open
To bleed with sorrow
As if there's no tomorrow
I walked away unrecognized
In the rain, I disguised
He followed to apologize
But I failed to recognise
This rain helped me
To let go of my past
From where it all began
Time just went too fast


It has been raining heavily since yesterday. So just weaved on this FICTIONAL write.
no one 4d

think happy thoughts they say,
and the bad ones will disappear.
and my question to you is how?
how am I supposed to stay happy,
when my thoughts are telling me that i'm
a fuck up,
a mess,
a slut,
an idiot,
a bitch,
a fatty,
a failure,
and i'm never gonna succeed?

just tell me how

is it by completely hiding the fact,
that i have not-so-great thoughts?
is it by spilling out my thoughts,
to a person in a white coat,
so they can write it down on a clipboard,
and give me happy pills?

because it's not that easy.
yet people tell me every day,
it's not hard.
i just chuckle at them and say,
you don't understand.

I tried not to be too obvious
adjusting, my package on the train
hand in pants, nonchalant
those in therapy, remain

No way to do it publicly
without gasps, or ridicule
underwear in a bind
nothing left too do

Avert your eyes, as you must
wearing my business suit
briefcase that won't hide
yes, the point, is moot

Mother's cover babies eyes
grandma eyes wide, and agape
fathers, brothers, sisters riled
no way, I can escape

as everyone, and anyone's
sensibilities, now defiled

Hey, sometimes, ya gotta get relief! ;D

It started in the burning starlight

There was nothing in me. I was new and everything was naked.

Memories carry with them the heavy weight of another dimension.


He put the tape over her mouth. And I shouted mom's name. “mom”

My lips go dark. Silver and stuck. My face is small. Only one piece of tape for nose and mouth.


Every window bursts open and the anger creeps in.

Little  brown eyes go black. My body falls and the room siezes. Each frame of the shot vibrating, camera lens cracks and breaks.

My eyes are new, in a big brown body, with strong arms and fast feet.


fist for fist. Tape peeled back by revenge. And nothing sleeps right.

Somewhere else there are stars and you don't have to live

Could I be so naive...memories slipping through my fingers like pebbles. Through my tired, fading fingers.


I feel breath. Whispers remind you that you cant be persuaded. Hands remind you that you can't fight back.

His lips making shapes in the dark, undoing buttons on child sized jeans.


Overzealous heroes charge in and their fists build walls of bruises around would be abusers.

Maybe they save others...maybe overzealous heroes burn it all away.


And then no one gets hurt. Because nothing exists when it's ashes and bone.

But who am I if I believe memories can disappear…

If I refuse to accept the way they lurk in the shadows of my skull.

If I refuse to acknowledge them they grow.

Sunswept, copper sky. The moon sits waiting at the edge of the horizon

There he is. Big brown body like nothing id ever hoped.

Moving in and they can't see.


I feel comfort. Longing for that in my own skin.

I feel safe. Longing for that in my self.


Parents stinging child. Words biting the neck.

Poison lingering in veins. In memories.


But it's okay. He says he's been here before. Savior of the nightmares, i know him.

I sit in the backseat alone, waiting for the conversation to end. English to Spanish. My weight. I'm too big for someone so little.

He rubs my head and says it doesn't matter.

The hand is light and rough. Thick. Familiar and strange.

How could I become could I be so incomplete.

It ended with the scorching moonlight

Marlene Jan 8

I want to give myself to you
I swear to God I really do.

But every time we get that close
Most of me is still opposed.

That man f*cked me up,
it will always get me choked up.

I fear he'll always have control,
even though you're on patrol.

Maybe it's myself I fear the most.
Is that his master plan, to be the host?

When he's dead remains a ghost
and that is what I fear the most.

First of January.
Not even a full day through the year and I've already asked myself times without number, whether this will be the year my life ends:
'Will 2018 be the year that I finally kill myself?'
No. I will never commit to something like that, in a similar way that others can't seem to commit to being in a relationship with me, because
I'm too fucking scared.
I'm not scared of drinking bleach or cutting my own throat, no;
I'm not scared of the actual act, rather
I'm scared of the aftermath.
I don't want to die but
It feels like I already have and
I don't want to die but
I might just have to
In order for people to start taking me seriously. Cherish me.
Death is not something I want, believe me. And it's certainly not
Something I want to inflict.
All I want to do is physically hurt myself so it becomes clear that
I'm begging for help.
I'm so desperate I'd even get a
Blade and make numerous incisions
As to allow voluntary hands
To slip inside and
Help me
I'd skin myself alive just to prove a point.
Sometimes I think of cutting myself as a way of doing this.
I am slowly but surely
Peeling back the skin of the old me so that I can become a new person.
I'll never be a whole person -
Partly because I'll lack my outer protective layer-
But being skinned alive seems more pleasant than facing the reality that I am,
If nothing else,
A little bit mentally ill
And alone to deal with it.
I'm trapped in my sinister mind and although there are millions of doctors out there,
I can't find a surgeon who'll be right  for the job.
I've already demonstrated in this poem that
I can perform the surgery myself and, even though I want you too,
I'll urge you not to worry because
I've performed solo my whole life.
The only problem is that the curtains never seem to be open when I take to the stage.
If I drew them back would an audience materialise before my eyes?
Would the seats be filled and will those filling them have paid so that they can be entertained, or so they can support me?
Spectators or friends; I'm not sure which-
I wonder who will attend my one-woman show.

I love the past.
Not only because of the bad and good memories, but because of how I managed to glide through things easily.
all of it is rather unbelievable...
i don’t believe it myself and the thoughts just keep poking at my mind like they’re sticking knives in my brain!
I just want them to stop
they won’t stop experimenting on me
I am not a hamster.

regret is on my mind and alcohol seems to be my only friend
no one understands my pain of what Im going through.
they just wouldn’t understand.
the kids look at me as if I killed another man.
but here I just walk on a straight path that leads to nowhere
the never-ending road with the white light at the end that I can’t reach.

no matter how fast I run, no matter how intelligently I think, it goes farther and farther away.
the daily thought that rests in my god-forsaken mind is when will I ever go home?
when will I experience the warm feeling of returning home after a long day and seeing loved ones?
take me home, alcohol, take me away to the sweet paradise of liquor and whiskey that I was destined to go for rehab
I’m sure everyone there would like me.

the next thing you know I blinked my eyes and I was strapped to a wheelchair.
my hands moved by themselves and I felt a shadow loom over my shoulder
it was a nurse in a white gown with a red and white hat
she asked me how i was doing and I replied I was doing terrible.
she reassured me I would feel better once I got to the hang of things here.
socializing she said was the thing to do.
I didn’t learn of her name but I’ll remember her by her firm feminine voice.
her voice was rather comforting, just listening.
to her made me feel like I was actually talking to someone who could understand me.
I wish I could have spoke with the unknown nurse more, but she was already occupied again.
the moment she was gone, that light I see at the end of the lonesome path I walk disappeared.
I came to my senses and noticed the neatness of the rehab center.
someone with OCD would embrace in joy seeing this.

a man in a blue suit walks in with a silent expression, eyes down and face forward
he pulls a chair out of darkness and sits in it unpolitely
then, his eyes come into contact with mine, as if they mean to startle
i glance at the man with pursed lips, then i notice he has a card.
but the card suddenly snaps with callous fingers releasing the card.
"this is you. your life, your everything. you became an alcoholic, hamster, and a alcoholic. you have no family, and you have nothing. all you own is your past, present, and future."
looking down at the broken white business card, i imagined the card from the man's analogy as my own life.
piecing it all together one by one, it all started making sense.
i can be something from nothing, i can have something, being born with a purpose.
from nothing to something, i am me.

the strange chat with the peculiar man changed the train of thought going through my brain.
suddenly i no longer felt the needles poking at my brain, i was reassured in being a better person.
my bones suddenly became thicker with the covering of more addition of healthy fat.
the dark cloud slowly disappearing into the moon...
from the days passing by ever since the interview, i realized i had changes happening within me.
my paradise of whiskey and liquor was no more, and my brain married a new paradise: freedom.

when you think of the past, it's a place you'd like to be in for sometime unless someone snaps you out of it.
mistakes are just old memories and scars
L M Biese Dec 2017

I hide behind these lines.
In my head.
On my arm.
Around my throat.

My life is full of lines.
Learning them.
Cutting them.
Writing them.
Hearing them.
Living them.
Breathing them.
Wanting them.
Needing them.

Cutting isn’t going to kill me.
One painkiller won’t either.
If one can’t kill me, two surely can’t either.
Two isn’t working anymore,
Better take another, and another, and another, and another. (another 4, get it?)
Soon the bottles are empty,
Just like me.

I don’t have enough will to kill myself.
And I hate that I reached out.
And I hate that my friends care.
And I hate that I’m on medication.
I hate myself.
Because I hate myself.

And I hate myself for typing my thoughts,
For someone, maybe to see.
I want to date someone, but don’t want someone to care about me before I go.

Look at all the lines I’ve already done.
They still aren’t enough.
I know I need to get better,
But fuck it.

I’m finally happy. (I̶f̶ ̶h̶a̶p̶p̶y̶ ̶m̶e̶a̶n̶s̶ ̶I̶ ̶h̶a̶t̶e̶ ̶m̶y̶s̶e̶l̶f̶,̶ ̶t̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶i̶s̶)

Skyler Gavaghen Dec 2017

She has butterflies for eyes
and candy corn for teeth,
rummaging through my innards
for anything she wants to keep;

like the omnipotent fingertips
of a sculptor with no name,
she sorts through my organs
like some twisted little game.

I wrote this poem about the time I spent with a particularly harmful therapist, and how it felt to be (at the time) a child sitting in her office.
Next page