Drip, drip, drip
Goes my blood onto the sparkling white porcelain.
Blood pooling from my arm,
running down to my fingertips.
The velvety red liquid making me feel something for once,
in this cruel heartless world of ours.
The blood loss making me feel light,
giving me release from the pain I constantly live in.
Giving me escape from the real world.
The blood is running down the sink,
leaving a trail of bright red.
I watch it go down,
like my spirits.
I look into the mirror and look at what I see.
A scared, hurt, ugly little girl.
One who knows too much pain and judgement,
at such a young age.
Why is it that society tells us that we are stupid, ugly, fat and worthless?
Making us feel so pathetic,
that we turn to alcohol, drugs and self-harm.
I look at the girl staring back at me and I begin to sob.
I see every imperfection, because that's what society has taught me to see in myself.
I clean up my arm and the sink.
Turning on my computer, I see two things;
Girls trashing one another and calling each other *****,
and people saying not to listen to "The Haters", that it gets better.
Turning off the social media,
I turn my gaze to the window and I begin to think.
Why does it matter what anyone else thinks?
Why do I always feel like this?
Giving myself a headache,
I get up to go get some alive.
I see my hookah pin.
In and out goes the smoke through my lungs.
The smoke forms a pure white cloud around me and I'm enchanced.
It all looks so pure and beautiful,
yet it is so harmful.
Just like your words that you throw around.
And once you let go of them, you can't get them back.
You make people feel pathetic and worthless,
even though we are SO much more than your words.
We are people who have been put through HELL,
yet we are still here and fighting.
You of all people can't and won't bring me down.
Of course, that's what I always say.
And yet, I go to bed.
Knowing that even when I close my eyes,
the cycle of hell I live in will continue to fling me around.
And it will all just repeat,
Tomorrow.

If she let it hit her
At a run or at a crawl
She would feel it the same way,
She'd feel it not at all

Some taste life on their tongue
In purples, reds and golds
But by the time she swallows it
It's aleady gone old
She reaches not for sweet
Not rare or medium well
How can you have a preference
When you can't even tell

Sometimes
It hits her like a wave
It crushes her, she's scared
That is until she realizes
She doesn't even care

If a piece of paper folds 7 times,
She'll fold over 8.
If everyone has their time and place,
Then it looks like she'd be late

'Cause life fits her into places
She didn't know she'd go
And people gave her knowledge, she didn't
Know she'd know
But when molecules
of thoughts and dreams
Don't look anything, like you thought they'd seem
Then what is your life made of?
That's whens she feels nothing

I long to memorize
every thing you tell me.
Every word you say late at night when
your brain turns drunk even if you're sober.

I want to inject your words into my veins
so the moment you walk out of my life,
I could cut my skin open and
bleed your words out.
Just like that.

I want to kiss you in the middle of your sentences
that I can taste your words
and transfer them into my system.
So the moment you regret ever saying them,
I could shove a finger down my throat
and force them out just like that.

These are things I'm willing to do,
To let you know
That with every word that comes out of your mouth,
Bitter or sweet,
Is a stab in my gut.
Not at the moment,
but once you leave.

i ruptured into a
million flickering stars
too long ago, breaking from
touch-induced trauma and the
poisonous aspects of
bleach. my thoughts drip
from the ink veins
of pens; ******* it,
i cannot allow myself
the privilege of
saying, “this

is every secret i
ever hid.” i am not
soft or pretty or
loving; i am small
and hurt and reticent
and guilty and abandoned. i
long to be the

little girl i was six years ago
before he shredded my
insides, sprouted roses
in my blood, wrapped his ******
thorns around my throat. there is
no recognition of that beloved
innocence. the girl in the mirror
never looks back at me: she is knotted
hair, decaying paper skin,
scarlet gashes, pink
scar tissue. i am not

sweet or darling. i am
ravaged. van gogh swallowed
yellow paint to create some
feigned happiness, and i understand
that in the nastiest way. i spent my time
trying  to shelter the black and blue
daisies on my hips with makeup,
camouflaging razorblades in fields
of sunflowers, pouring every
unhealthy bit of my starved
stomach into the beautiful
lilies in the flowerpot in the
bathroom. i have unearthed
that home is not the
safest place to be.

i was infected and diagnosed with
the disease of loneliness
by age eight. this wound
has burdened me yet the
ticking time tomb nestled in
the crooks of my devastated
personality will soon detonate; they
told me i was sick, and i think
i finally believe that.