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Do we pray if in the universe alone?
Are our hearts void prone?
Fill them with what our hearts make known.
For she knows, beautiful on the throne.
To her the universe and its nature was shown.
Her mind is her universe, her perceptive zone.
And everything around it, proof set in stone.
But be it so, from conscience desire we take a loan.
For many on points may agree, in our own little worlds we are lone.
For what does a *** make but things to atone?
Only but victims to sanctification, deified backbone?
But she sees it, beyond our eyes and senses a capstone.
Our evils we disown
Our deeds we enthrone.
I cease to understand, this love gemstone.

I do what I think, and from it know what I feel.
For reality and it’s perceptions I know not the deal.
I know what it isn’t but not to it’s spiel.
For reality in a basket was packaged and sealed,
I know not the inscriptions, but I know their look and it’s seel.
For I take pride in my work, and to thank need I kneel?
Must I sacrifice the heart and the veal?

But it is in her heart, Jesus her hero.
Pointing out her path, in a linear arrow.
Predisposed and into it’s comfort borrow.
Change is menacing, of a ruthless bureau.
But look at the stars more clearly.
Must a human like being, put us here his villains to him and his son the Heroes?
But I feel scrutiny drawing nearer.
As my era of silence draws to a close, I must either rebel or cry “ditto.”
Worship is communalism, it is understood through a collective limbo.
They know some things are wrong but not why, and others mirror.
You cannot have it both ways, at night and in morrow.
Yet there she is, sleeping through sermons but claiming them thorough.
Perhaps she is afraid of a Godless sorrow.
Of those who drift too far, from morality they widow.

But morality is not in every deity.
Morality is Mortal and Ambiguity is Immortal.
Commands change, principles are idle, ideals and idol.
But inward, subjective observation reaches divinity.
I must let her know this, my Goddess.
She reminds me of humility, to love, my lord.
Her reminders of myself are divine.
And her arms are better than heaven.
What is of Satan but condemned from the moment of creation?
Love is the thing that reigns Almighty.
To others my wise sounding works I hope to bless.
And her and I, lovely we are not saints.
But Saints are of ***, Ethnocentric to Abrahamic virtues.
Cut your *****, supply ****** no mercy.
**** your sons for your liege.
*** is violent, Jesus is peaceful.
How must they agree? Let alone be the same person?

Love across the veil
Doubt only in these moments
“We pray to thee ***.”
A kind of hot take on some things my Ex believed in, if you are not a fan of Religious commentary do not read.
Kat 1d
You say,
Why would you hurt yourself on purpose?
Are you crazy? 
And then you presume 
To know everything about me 
To know the person 
Whose scars paint a picture 
Of her pain 
Whose wounds 
Weep the thousands of tears 
She secretly sheds 
Whose swollen arms 
And black and blue bruises 
Breathe "I need help" 
But I am too afraid 
To ask 

You say,
Self-harm is a cry for attention 
But if I wanted attention 
I would not be trying 
To cover up the chaos 
I have created 
With long sleeves 
And longer lies 
Bury the bruises 
Behind excuses like 
"It was my cat"
Or "I fell while exercising" 
If I wanted attention 
I would bare my wounds proudly 
Display them for the world to see 
To judge me as they see fit 
Like you do now 
But why would I want attention 
When I fear judgement most of all
When my self-confidence is so eroded 
I want to disappear
Into the depths of the earth 
Live under layers
Of long-dead dreams 
So that I can no longer hurt anyone 
Or be hurt by anyone 
Again 

You say,
Self-harm is a phase 
I should have grown out of it 
By now 
But I am not just
Some angsty "emo" teenager 
Who cuts to fit in 
Or to be cool 
I do not just cut 
And besides 
Cutting is not just for teenagers 
Yes, I started in high school 
But I have used this as a coping strategy 
So many times by now 
That I do not know how to cope 
Without it 

You say,
People who self-harm are twisted 
They find happiness in hurting themselves 
But please don't call me a monster 
Who thirsts for the sight of my own blood 
Don't mistake my self-preservation
For pleasure 
I do this because I hurt too much 
Hate myself too much 
This is my only way to survive 
Cause I want to die 
But I don't want to die so badly 
That I have stopped trying to live 

You say,
Why would you do this?
Are you insane? 
And then you presume 
To know everything about me 
But you don't know anything 
At all
I no longer self-harm, but I wrote this poem from the perspective of someone who started when I did and continued long into adulthood. I know people's reasons for and experiences with self-harm vary and I don't want to generalize, merely to try and dispel some of the myths and the judgements that surround it.
Mel Jan 11
It was in the shower i tried to picture you
With your shirt off your lips turned blue.
"I dont want you to see me cry" i said
And not from the pain between my legs, as I bled.
I try to picture romantic evenings as beautiful,
Ones that make my mind content and full,
But in the end these images rott
They stink of regret and the same shame that I fought.
There are dark secrets in my mind,
Some even darker, some hard to find.
But your unconditional love it made me blind,
I try to picture a night with you.
I know you picture this night with me too.
A night where these secrets dont stop me,
From your loving touches, I wont flea.
At least in these dreams I can do this
But in the real world its just a punch with a strong cold fist.
This cant heal as fast as a scraped knee,
But it does feel like an injury.
Please dont give up so quickly,
Because in the end its still me.
All bruised up and blue from my past,
Im trying so hard to make this last,
I know im selfish.
Know that if your patient i will get my wish,
And these pictured nights in the shower wont be so sad,
Theres a day in the future where your touch wont feel so bad.
This might not be for anyone whose sensitive to past ****** abuse.
Bret Jan 7
*****. Half packets of Crystal Light. Singular squirts of Mio. Water.
Until grade twelve, being the fat girl was all that I knew.
While my friends were arranging dates and sharing clothing, I spent days attempting to find a shirt that made me feel okay.
I couldn’t look like I was trying too hard to hide for my own sake, but I also could not have anything too form fitting because the names that I was called would stay with me forever.
Jeans whose zippers did not do up, clothing stores being branded where only “old ladies” shop being the only places that carried my size and fingernails digging into the skin of my stomach; pinching, bruising and tugging as though if I pulled hard enough, pounds would fall off.
As though, if I pulled and pulled and pulled, somehow a perfect version of myself would be revealed and all would be okay.
I would be okay.

When the weight began to lower, people began to pay attention.
It is made apparent that as soon as stares of admiration, awe and **** began to linger, it means that treatment towards you will soon change.
No longer was I labelled the calorie infused, roll bearing soft drink that skinny girls would never even consider ordering,
rather I was a diet coke, bubbly and full of conversation.
I had their attention finally. I could take photos without being embarrassed. I could do as I wish and be with who I desired because no longer was I being held back by the suffocation of being deemed overweight,
of being different in the eyes of the public.

One day, I made a promise to myself that my weight loss would not encourage me to seek acceptance and attention from the boys in my small town who had never once looked in my direction until every vertebrae of my spine could be counted even through the fabric of my shirt as I sat in a chair.
But, when that’s all that you have craved in so long, it is both an incentive to continue and enough to induce the same high that your stomach growling does.
Suddenly, their eyes on me became just a game.
How many stares could I acquire by the end of a night out, phone numbers could I have added and fingers inside of me due to the deconstruction and reinvention of myself?
The answer is simple:
as long as the number of your body count is higher than that of the calorie intake of the day,
you win.

After all, this journey was for me. Right? That was what I heard endlessly.
Flurries of
“You look so good,”
“I am so glad that you made the decision to get healthy,”
and “Do you want to go out with me,”
were dialogues that had previously been foreign to me but now occupied the entirety of social considerations relating to me.
I had gone from a ghost, simply navigating through life unnoticed for fear of others being seen with me
to a staple of success,
someone who everyone wanted to be.
Being able to see each of my ribs as easily as the keys of a piano,
the ivory hidden behind the pale shield that was so viciously criticized by others,
was all that I needed to breeze through my high school years. That was all. Why hadn’t I done this before?

I was no longer a person by the time I graduated.
I was a machine that had been conditioned to attain whatever standard society deemed fit for that day.
Thick. Curvy. Victoria’s Secret. Fenty.
Those trends became just words again. I didn’t want to be those things.
I wanted to be the girl whose clothes are always baggy, who gets sick at the thought of ordering an extra small shirt because it could be smaller and who believes that a size zero is far from good enough.
I fed into the belief that the numbers on the scale and that were embroidered into the jeans that graced my hips are the complete dictator of my worth.
I wanted to be the success story worthy of the compliments that I had received because progress and results deserve rewards.

The problem is that instead of the relief and rest that I desired upon being thin, I have been rewarded with fainting in class, constant streams of questions, getting drunk with one shot and a constant calculator that ticks in my mind.
How many calories are in a piece of gum? How many calories are in one piece of lettuce? How many cups of water can I drink in one day to finally feel full?
I understand that my ultimate goal weight will continue to leap backwards, as though it was never stagnant in the first place.
150. 140. 130. 120. 110.
In that moment, I am simply a fragment of the ghost that was left behind,
one that is only content with a scale reading of less than zero.

And that is perhaps the understanding that being the fat girl is truly all that I know.
Trigger warning: eating disorder
Katy Jan 5
My feelings etch the page
With each tear that falls from my face

The pictures form
From the blood pooling out of the cuts on my hands

How was I supposed to know you would break me?
Or that my own pieces would cut me?

I just wanted to put them back together
So I didn't feel so empty
So I could be whole again
Philomena Jan 3
Run
I feel like I've had this conversation before
But here we go again

Run

Run like your life depends on it

Run as though you are outrunning death itself

Because I fear it has only begun
The tragedy of life
This is the play
And we are in act one
Now that I think about it, I've diffidently had this conversation before.
Eileen Black Jan 2
A Warning

A delicate dance of red and blue,
A spark, a flicker, a flame,
The heated lick of a yellow hue,
This blaze no man can tame.

As tempting as the warmth may be,
And welcoming its light,
One should be cautious if he should see
A burning flicker of white.

Though we can never deny the beauty
Of this symbol of desire,
It still remains my fervent duty
To warn you of this thing called fire.
Marsha Dec 2018
Mom always warned me
not to play with fire.
If only she knew
that I was the flame,
she would have warned
the others
not to light me up.
ravyn Dec 2018
dead dove, do not eat

theres a
dead dove in the fridge
i implore you
please do not open the bag unless
you wish to see,
a dead dove

why now are you gagging
and raving
and ranting
about how the dead dove was so unpleasant when you
opened the bag?
did i not warn you?
please do not open the bag unless
you wish to see,
a dead dove

oh, now you complain of
taste and texture!
the dead dove was the
most disturbing of meals
and how could i
have fed you that
when
it was you
who opened the bag
despite warnings and pleading of
please do not open the bag unless
you wish to see,
a dead dove
i like the phrase dead dove
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