Nathan A Jul 9
I carved a line into my skin tonight
Crimson descends down my leg
This isn't masochism
Because I don't feel pain
I breathe again
I feel relief
I read a quote somewhere that said,
"I don't know how many times I have survived myself, without telling anyone else."

And I felt those words shoot through every nerve in my body. I felt them so deeply.

And I wonder how many of us feel the same way.

How many nights we fought off the suicidal thoughts, the urge to cut, the urge to purge, the urge to run or to hide out, alone, too afraid to worry or bother our friends and family.

How many days and nights have we all suffered in our own darkness alone?

People like us fight a battle no one can ever fathom because it's a battle no one can see. And we don't let them.

I've fought myself and survived myself alone so many nights.

There were nights I use to lose my own battle. But some how still came out alive.

I guess that's how we keep going. Because every time we give up we come out stronger.

You fight yourself and beat yourself up for so long that eventually you become a master of surviving a war.

We're warriors.

"I don't know how many times I've survived myself, without telling anyone else."

Tonight, I'm telling all of you.

I survived myself.

And if you're still here and you're reading this, you survived yourself too.

It's not easy but you did it.

And I'm so proud of you all.
The original quote "I dont know how many times I survived myself, without telling anyone else.", which triggered the whole poem was written by @deadwatered. A talented poet I follow on tumblr.
Bix Jul 3
⚠ TRIGGER WARNING ⚠ R*

I wasn't sure where else to go to just let out what I've been bottling up so here we are!





Two and a half years later and I'm finally allowing myself to accept it...

I was raped. I am a rape victim.

The one "okay, fine" does not change the million times I said no.

I said I needed to leave, I had to go home, my mom was gonna be mad if I was late, I didn't want to, I wasn't ready, I need to leave, and I definitely said no.

He still held my hips.
He wouldn't let me go.
Told me to stay
Told me not to go
"Just let me stick it in!"
"C'mon, just for a couple minutes!"
"Please babe!"
Over and over and so on and so forth

He wouldn't let me leave.
Saying "okay, fine" was not me consenting.
It was me giving up so I could leave.
It was me letting him do what he wanted with my body so that I could go home.

That was two weeks into our relationship.
I was 14 and he was 15.
We dated for another seven months.
I believed I was in love.
What I really believed was his lies.
The rest of our relationship was sex.
I never really wanted it.
It was my first real relationship and I thought that was what it was supposed to be like.
I never wanted any of that.

It has taken a seven month long relationship and two hook ups with him for me to realize that I never loved him. I was in love with the idea of being in love and he used that to his advantage.

It was rape. I was raped. I hate what he did to me, I hate him, but I can grow past this. My story isn't all of me. It is a single chapter of my life that I can grow past.
Parker Poole Jun 22
i haven't been able to sleep quite right
the nightmares are keeping me up at night
again
12 years ago, i was molested
4 years ago, i was raped
a year ago, i was raped by someone different
i've been asked why i've been putting myself in these situations
i protest, always
"i'm not! i swear!"
but as i hear their words, telling me it's all my fault
i come to the realization that
maybe it is
maybe its the way i dress, or the way i trusted too easily
i'm trying to keep strong
but i've been making a mess of the bed each night
i try to remember i'm loved as my lover holds me tight
but all i can remember is his rough hands shoving my body down
closing my eyes and trying not to let myself drown
all i can remember is my own flesh and blood
telling me to do things no five year old should
and i've been having trouble sleeping in my own bed
and i wanna tell someone but i put it all on paper instead
K Jun 3
I can't stop thinking of it
How the razor feels so cool in my hands
Fitting so perfectly between the grip of finger and thumb
How it appears from nothing
Pink
to
Bright red
Beads of blood pooling along the fine line of open flesh
The cold burn of alcohol
The soreness and sting with every step

I can't stop thinking of his blood
What if mine looked like that one day
How strangely romantic it would be
to bleed out the hurt together

I woke up craving it
He kisses me hard before I leave him behind in my dreams
It does not hurt during
Only after
perhaps these dreams are much like razors

I woke up craving to open myself up
clavicle to stomach
pour myself out over white sheets
the stains wont come out
My mom would throw them away

The place where i once felt safe
has grown teeth and a devious grin
come in my friend, while I chew you like gum
and spit you out when the sweetness has subsided
Chloe May 26
She is a monster in the back of my head.
Every bite of food fills me with dread.
“Don’t eat that, you’re already so fat.”
“0 calories a day will make your stomach flat.”
She comes to me in my dreams,
So sickly, so thin.
Her name is Ana.
She is the demon within.
She will pretend to be your friend
Just to get inside your head;
And she will hold on tight.
She will cover you in darkness.
She will mock you out of spite.
She does not forgive.
She does not forget.
Letting her in will be your biggest regret.
TRIGGER WARNING: ED/NUMBERS.
I’ve been struggling for the past few month and I haven’t talked to anyone about it because I’m afraid people will think I’m seeking attention.
I am not trying to glamorize eating disorders in any way. If you are also struggling, stay strong. You can beat this. ❤️
Micayla May 24
My poetry does not shake the floorboards
But it does keep score
Of broken mirrors and slamming doors
Tally marks in finger shaped bruises on forearms
One, two, three, four
Bruises,
You can't see anymore.
The hands that cupped my face,
Kisses meant for my lips,
Given to closed fists,
And found on my cheekbones.
Dead words resurrected with names like Jack and Jim,
Putting me in their place
Six feet underneath his bed, under him.
Till roses grow from between my ribs while wicked thorn bushes pulsate in my veins,
Sugary words reminiscent of candy canes,
Verbally definitive, physically diminutive,
Because sometimes sweet talking gets you a deal.
But fuck talking, I’ve decided to heal.
The person I was all those years before,
I don’t care,
I don’t know her anymore.
Illya Oz May 6
How can you even start to express to someone that you want to watch yourself bleed...

That you want to rip open your own skin and feel the warmth trickel down you body.
Watching it seap out of you and slide across your skin.

How do you explain that this is a craving stronger then you could ever describe and ever so hard to resist.
That this red liquid is able to quench your metaphorical thirst for emotional relief.

How can you explain that that it helps...
That in some twisted way the pain makes everything hurt less.

How do you explain to them that it scares the living hell out of you,
That this is something you can do to yourself,
That this is something you want to do to youself.
The knowing that even after so many years you still crave it,
And you don't think you will ever stop craving it.

How can you explain to them that you don't want them to think you're crazy.
That it just hurts too much for you to bare.
That you are trying to bare it but the pain you feel inside is too much.

That the fact that you can't see this pain scares you,
that others can't see your pain scares you,
That you don't even understand this pain scares you.
And maybe this is why you crave watching yourself bleed.

It's a pain you can see,
A pain that others can see,
A pain you can understand,
But now that you see the pain you understand that you don't want others to see it.
Because how could you even beguin to explain.


How could I ever beguin to expain to you that I want to watch myself bleed...
I heard a line in a slam poem recently about someone with an eating disorder which really resonated with me. "I consider myself recoverd but still talk about my eating disorder in present tense."
I am 2 years 'recoverd' from self-harm, yet many days I still battle with the 'addiction'. Everyday is a question of 'Will today be the day I relaps', 'Will I be strong enought to fight it today.' Yet I don't talk about it. Most people just don't understand and I don't know how to explain it. I don't want their sympathy, the way they look at you like if they say something your going to shatter like glass. I don't think I will ever truly recover from my self-harm, it will stay with my for as long as my scars do, a lifetime.
6:55 p.m.
Here comes the train again.

I dont wanna die but everytime I see a train pass by I still imagine myself laying underneath it.

Trains terrify me because of the way seeing one fly by makes me imagine that if I wanted to, in just one second I could end it all.

The train passes by,

I'm still alive.

I know I'd never lay on those tracks but the fact that those thoughts are still there haunting me shows me that no matter how much better you get.

It doesnt matter.

All the work, all the healing, and you still have to fight off those demons every single day for the rest of your life.

But every day you survive, they get a little bit easier to fight off.

7:00 p.m. and I made it over those train tracks one more time.

I can do this.

April 30, 2018
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