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Ju Lia Feb 2016
They call her the artist
Not because she’s in the art room day after day
But because her body is her canvas
And her blades are the deadly paintbrushes
Her easel is a mirror
Her mistakes hit the shower tiles
In a methodical and predictable drip
Her paintings are not clean
White tiles stained red,
Silver blade meets blue vein meets crimson pain
Her masterpieces are aggravated lines of flesh
Lines on her hips but the word ‘***’ on parted lips
Translucent tears on flushed cheeks,
The desire to be numb overpowering everything
Eyes fluttering closed as the water stings the wounds
Her cuts forming a maze to get lost in
She wanted her life to be like Starry Night
As compared to The Scream
‘An artist is an artist is an artist’
She murmurs
As the blade falls from her hands
Trigger warning: self harm, depression, homophobia
I am lucky
I am lucky that I am
I am lucky that I am living
I am lucky that I am living in the state
I am lucky that I am living in the state of being
I am lucky that I am living in the state of being in which
I am lucky that I am living in the state of being in which life
I am lucky that I am living in the state of being in which life gave me.
I am lucky that I get to have the items I have
I am lucky that I get to meet the people I meet
I am lucky that I get to see the things I see

But I am unlucky to get to see how my privileges corrupt people.
Make them turn my lucky life into hell.

The ****
The ******
The theft
The battery
The harassment

I am lucky that humans abuse their privileges...
If only privileges given were decided by heart and not birth
©LogenMichel copyright 2016
Alaska Feb 2016
It's
disgusting
that I crave
it.
I want it to
stop the
emotional
pain
and replace
it with
physical.
I crave
the feeling.
I'm sick.
Brianna Feb 2016
Tomb raider movies
The Titanic
Men on the street who look like knives and cars
Cigarettes
The smell of cigarettes
The taste of cigarettes on someone's lips and tongue
Wooden stairs that descend into the ocean
**** smith
Tea (especially Earl Grey)
The smell of his room
Someone with the same name
The movies
Car kisses
Neck kisses
Casual thigh touches
Chess
Classical piano music
The corner chemist
The Greek restaurant we never got to go to
The underneath of bridges
Anyplace we kissed
Baskin Robbins
Goldstein's
Sherlock Holmes novels
The word beautiful
Rose St
Those ******* shoes
Iron Maiden
Christmas songs
Sometimes I don’t even need a trigger
My brain goes numb with the thought of you...
Beinghonest Feb 2016
Whether I try to or not,
I'll keep
P
   O
      U  
        R
          I
          N
         G
Out my heart to her -
Because she keeps

Puncturing it! >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

With her honey-sweet words.
Umm, she triggers these things in me and I find myself telling her stuff I wouldn't tell anyone.

-just being honest
Pauline Morris Feb 2016
On my way out watch it flow
Just one more poem before I go
I haven't much time
So just one last rhyme
It won't be long before I'm done
It would of been faster if I'd used a gun
But I wanted to see the blood run
For every drop there is a story
Of pain and agony, there is no glory
I'm growing weak
I think I accomplished the feat
One more line, my world was bleak
Mikayla Feb 2016
Never tell the girl with messy hair and wide eyes that when her father sexually abused her they were, "fooling around." Fooling around is a consensual act between two lovers, friends, or strangers in which both gain pleasure and to make her feel as though that is something she did is degrading and destructive. She's already been through that once.
When I got that anonymous question asking me "why is it when you fool around with your dad, no one gets in trouble, but when I do it I'm a ******?" I almost snapped. The smell of cheap beer formed under my nose and the entire contents of my stomach almost fell to the side of my bed, however, I had not eaten enough to push all of my mental instability out of my mouth. I could feel my father's hands around my wrist, pulling, pinning, calloused hands scratching my nine year old skin. I could hear my young cries for help, and the tears staining my cheeks. I could feel the air on my ear as he whispered. "Tell anyone and it'll be worse next time." I remembered cleaning my own blood from the carpet that afternoon.
And I almost replied with a defensive remark, but I stopped. There was no need for this private matter to be put on display on a social media forum, because then who's the girl that "fooled around" with her father?
But then the question, it irks me to my very core, the reason my hands are so swiftly typing this poem between waves of hurricanes in my eyes. It's as if my dignity has been stripped from me again, no more layer of scar tissue to protect even the deepest layers of my darkest secrets. Nothing was safe anymore.
And when I showed it to my boyfriend, the look in his eyes terrified me. It was as if someone had just dropped a match on a mile long pile of bone dry trees doused in gasoline. But someone had. Someone had dropped a match on me, just as fragile and capable of burning up completely.
Never tell the girl with messy hair and wide eyes that when her father sexually abused her they were, "fooling around." Fooling around is a consensual act between two lovers, friends, or strangers in which both gain pleasure and to make her feel as though that is something she did is degrading and destructive. She's already been through that once.
Pauline Morris Feb 2016
Self mutilation
Tattooed invitation
Thoughts confused
A razors used
Skin engraved
Scars won't fade
Mind unwind
Blood divine
Pauline Morris Feb 2016
In the very dark of night
Where everything is out of sight
With a knife on pale white flesh
I made a creation, new and fresh
Bright and red I drew some reins
Trying to redirect the pain
Away from my swelling brain
So some sanity I might retain
But once I started I couldn't refrain
Knife sliced, blood flew
Laughter ensued
Now my body looks like tracks of a train
Everything still remains the same
Pain and agony stubbornly still remains
Nothing lost well ever be regained
Like the sand on the beach, I'm but a grain
Pauline Morris Feb 2016
Thin red lines they etch the skin
All to show the agony within Here we go once again
With no drugs to dull the pain
I let the razor glide thru my vain
Within my head I have no doubt
That with the blood the pain flows out.
Thats what my scars are all about
With the stream I won't explode
I won't implode
With every drop that hits the ground
Is one less scream that sounds
Within my head resides all the memories
They seem to go on for centuries
Endless ****** up realities
Cuz with all the pain I'm stretched to thin
So thin red lines will etch my skin
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