Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Britney Lyn Jun 2017
Nobody can hate me more than I hate myself so say what you have to say. Just understand this, if you tell a fat girl she's fat and she already knows, why tell her again and make her feel worse? If you tell a suicidal girl to **** herself, she just might. Words trigger actions, and words are beautiful. So don't use them to hurt people.
Be kind
The sky crackles and I feel the most alone.

Just like that day in the woods.

My special place was off the trail, but he couldn't have known me,

I was so young and such an idiot,

Not everyone is genuine but I was so trusting,

I can still smell the sickening mixture of fresh-fallen rain,his sweat, the mud around the creek and salt from my tears.

With every atmospheric collision from the sky
my stomach churns tasting the blood in my mouth from his fist thundering against my tear stained cheeks.

When the wind blows  
I can still feel his callous hands bruising and exploring my unwilling body, and scraping against
the most intimate parts of me.

The lightning is when I remember the rock that found my desperate palms and crashing against his temple

The wind howls and the rain finally starts to fall then, near my belly button burns just like it did when the blade he swung wildly cut me before I could run and the water is my heartbeat pounding  in my ears,
but I can hear him behind me
The rush If my blood reminding me I’m still alive mind begging me to stay that way, his threats pushing me further

Head pounding ,body burning,
I burst through my front door

And then I start to cry
Rain storms are actually very hard for me to get through due to some other traumas but the storm that passed when I wrote this smelled like that day. Thunder really triggers me especially when I'm alone I used to cry in school when it thundered in the weeks after this incident but then I started to internalize it and I'd just be really quiet on those days. Trigger Warning, ****, molestation, violent attaked on a minor.
For a long time I was very scared to write about my emotions. For even longer than that, I've been very scared of writing about emotional experiences. I mean, I wrote about them, but I put them in the context.

I let a metaphoric poem tell the world about molestation or depression. I danced around the fire as it burned me, hoping my wild movements might appease some higher god into letting me forget myself.

I'm not condemning anyone who finds strength in this form of poetry, I just wasnt doing it for that reason. For me, metaphor was an escape not a release. I looked around at the pages laid before me and found only stepping stones into memories I'd have rather forgotten. Playing hopscotch on the fingers of child molesters.

When I was very young, I was woken in the middle of the night by a stranger's hands down my pants. He whispered I'd be okay as I tried to push him away until I finally got up and left the room. My cousin sat on the couch to the side of me. As I walked away he proceeded to touch her too. It was probably around 3 in the morning. My family, or the ones who could stay awake, were drinking heavily and talking loudly about things I didn't understand. I sat in a stairwell hidden from them. Close enough for them to hear me breathing. And I couldn't muster the courage to tell them what had happened. What was happening just downstairs to my cousin of the same age.

For a long time I tried to make people laugh. Because I was too sad to know why and I didn't know how to show it. I moved my fingers across the fine lines on people's faces and scrunched my nose at them. I hated them for being what I wanted. For laughing like I wished I could.

I let laughter find me a path to peoples happiness hoping it would come to me. But it never did. I lost myself in being a person I never wanted to be and I did it because I thought contentment was in someone else.

When I was a little boy my mom was dating a man named Danny. I'm sure by now I've blocked out every memory of this man except the one that lives with me. A memory torn in two because I see my sister and my mom. My sister a mirror image of myself, wrapped in duct tape from head to toe like a mummy. Nose and mouth too. Danny's handiwork. Were both shouting through silver tape, and trying to let someone know that our air is finite and our lungs are small. My mom finally tells Danny to stop. Not concerned so much as annoyed.

For a long time I tried to **** myself. I walked a razor line tying together old bits of my skin and dragging them behind me. Sewing the solid chunks of plain happiness to the rotting vibrant gangrene of my depressed parts. Hoping I could heal all the decomposed skin with a little bit of happy motivation.

I let other people remind me of who I was. Forgetting all the time and being reminded again and again so I could try to be someone new. Someone only they could see.

When I was a teenager, my dad and stepmom came up with a system for helping me lose weight. At any chance they'd get, they would make small remarks or comments about how my weight affected me daily. From how far down the car drops when I step in it, to my girlfriend's must be cheating on me cause why me. I didn't realize this was supposed to be for help. So I began to see myself as who I was and to this day I can't see my girlfriend walking down the street near another person without wondering if they are together because I'm a fat slob. I can't get in a car without wondering if anyone's noticed how much its moved because I've stepped in. At this point, I'm just hoping for the heart attack.

For a long time. I was only the pieces of myself I let other people see. I was a mirror that caught every Whisper and disgusted glance and fell apart whenever I actually saw myself. I couldn't be me. But this mirror is broken and cracked, all the chips replaced with parts from different mirrors.

I let that mirror shatter recently. And it's scary trying to decide who I am. In a world full of people holding up mirrors.
mars May 2017
they will try to tell you I tried to **** myself.

I swear, it wasn't that.

It's just that the weeds were growing through my ribs and down my back and into my lungs, and no one likes weeds.

so I tried to drink **** killer.

instead it just burnt my throat and made my skin feel like sandpaper

it ripped out my taste buds and numbed the bridge of my nose

and it didn't even get rid of the ******* weeds.
CNM Apr 2017
I should have been institutionalized
Lying on the floor at 15 taking all the pills in the house
I never succeeded in suicide
She gave me a tiny wooden box
A butterfly on the top, my moms favorite animal
I kept my razors there
Until the butterfly fell off
Trigger warning
Oh no, don't worry about it I'm fine.
i'm just Killing time and was wondering if you could talk. no, don't worry it was nothing.
i am completely Alright, i've just been having a rough time.
how have You been?

Of course i want you to ask again but I don't want to burden you.
i'll Keep it locked up deep inside, i'all be okay they have their own lives.
they are so far Away, i want to make plans with you but you're so busy now.
I am running out of Yellow paint, my only companion in the loneliness.

i have a feeling i'll be gone soon, but that's OKAY.
Tana Marie B Apr 2017
The first stream of ribbons
Ecstasy
Again I must have it
Another not so seamlessly
But the hue of red trickles down
No ecstasy...
again
again
The delicate razor glides effortlessly
again
again
Tiny ribbons for only me to see.
4/19/17
Donielle Apr 2017
You're a pillar of smoke
that rises up
out of a pile of ash leftover
from a fire I thought
I'd extinguished long ago.
You're the **** of a cigarette
now smoldering
much after I've quit smoking,
and the smell of you
reaching my nostrils
brings acid from my stomach
to my throat
and I'm forced to choke for a moment.
You're the dark ring
around the tub
even after years of scrubbing,
and I hate it because
it reminds me of the rings,
dark and stubborn
around my eyes.
You're the agitated
pressure marks
on either side of my nose
from the glasses I habitually wear
although I've far outgrown them.
You're the splinter
that sits just far enough beneath my skin
that any attempt to remove it
just furthers my irritation.
I can try to forget about you,
let you slowly work your way out,
but it simply takes one rub,
one bump in the right direction
to remind me
you're still there
and I'm sore all over again.
Simply the thought of you
makes me ache.

I ache from my shins
like I did that night
you swung a metal bar across them.
And my ***.
And my chest.
And the back of my head
when I tried to roll away from your thunder.
I ache from my lips
like I used to when they'd swell
from the contact of your palms
or your knuckles
or my teeth
so I could hold back my screams.
I ache from my throat
like I would for days
after you would grab me -
I swear you'd squeeze harder every time,
and if given a choice now,
I'd happily pick a noose
over your hand any day.
But most often I ache
from my head as a whole -
my eyes,
my nose,
my mouth -
my temples throb.
I can hear my own heartbeat -
Everything tingles
like when you would box me,
pack me up with your fists
into a small package,
sealed with the stamp
of your forehead
pecked against mine
like a hammer to a nail.

But every beginning has an end,
under pressure
diamonds are formed,
and it's only after a star is destroyed
that we see it twinkle from Earth.

Every bruised eye
has made mine shine brighter.
Every fat lip
has made my smile wider.
Every tear, every plea choked back
has made my song louder.

I am now
the tree you tried to cut down
but my seeds already fell
and I'm growing again.
I am the picture
you tried to shred
but I became a puzzle
and someone else
put me together.
I am the star
you tried to black out
with your darkness,
but I became the sun
and now it's summer time.
Trigger Warning : Domestic Abuse
V Anne Apr 2017
How many times
Can I draw on my arms
With sharpie
To prevent me
From hurting myself?

I've found new ways
To induce pain.

I smoke.
I drink too much.
I search for love in others
Who want nothing to do with me.

These black lines
Along my forearms
Do not shield me from pain
Like I wished they would.

They only mask
My fear.
Delaney Mar 2017
if every year of my life
were a chapter
and I could only remove one
from my story:
I would tear out chapter 14.

I would rip all the pages,
mutilate beyond repair,
shred. Shred shred shred
burn burn burn until
nothing was left but ashes.

14, when I was naive.
14, when I thought kissing a boy
would make even me think that I
was straight, 14
when a hot summer event suddenly
burned me hotter than the sun
ever could, because
at 14, a boy I called friend
didn’t listen.

14, he’s in my house,
14, he’s in my room,
14, he’s on top of me,
14, he’s forcing his way in me and I…
I am telling him to stop.

14, my cries go ignored,
14, he’s stronger than me,
14, my parents aren’t home,
14, I didn’t tell anyone he was coming,
14, he could hurt me if I run,
14…where would I even run to?

Shame; Shame because 14
is the story of when I said stop…
and then stopped trying to stop
what I wanted to stop and had asked
for to stop in the first place but
he did not listen to the word
‘stop.’

14, when fear paralyzed me.
14, when what was less than an hour
felt like a lifetime. 14
was crying when he finally left,
14 was seeing blood and knowing
it wasn’t my menstrual cycle.
14 was when my whole life
changed.

In chapter 14 I had innocence
stolen. In 14 I started high school;
where I had two classes with him
everyday.

14 was acting like it was fine,
I was fine, it was all fine,
until it wasn’t, and
14 was police reports and questions
and being accused of lying,
14 was “He’ll get what’s coming to him.”
But we are chapters away from that now and
justice has never once been applied, and
he roams free and
I still feel trapped under his body.

Chapter 14 would be entitled
“****”
and I would erase it from my story
if only such an action
were possible.

(d.d.b)
This is likely the most personal thing I've ever written.
Next page