I wear a sweater no
matter the weather

It keeps me warm
and hides my shame

Sometimes I forget
what my arms look like,
but every time I try to look

I see only the scars that has
slowly healed but never faded,
and I am reminded of my pain

And so I wear a sweater no
matter how hot the weather

slash their words by
demanding obedience.
burn them by
shaming their dreams.
cut them to the core
by belittling their feelings -
say their feelings don't matter
as much as yours.
the result?
doubts bring them
to their knees,
constantly questioning
others and their motives.
they wonder if they're
too much and not enough,
if their feelings are valid.
their wounds scare them
into submission.
authority is not an excuse
for abuse.
nothing is.

my flesh is sore
and tender
covered in deep violet buds
and the blooming yellow flowers
that grew in patches on
dry,
rough skin
and every tear would let blood trickle down
in between the petals
concealed
but felt.

i can’t tell you
how many times
somebody has seen
my scars
and told me
that i’m not really
suffering
-just because of my age

tw self harm



I want to take the blade to my wrist again
I’ve been... I’ve been doing so well...
But something in my heart
In my stomach, in my chest
Something in my mind isn’t right
I really need someone to take care of me
So... I guess this is it...
Taking the blade to my wrist again
Just so I can bandage it
Because I know
No one else will

Today,
a cloud has weeped for me,
she poured her tears upon my
face and washed my wounds

People call the
sky’s tears as rain,
but my tears are salty
and dripping with pain

Sweet pitter-patter,
The drumming of raindrops,
Lulling me gently,
To realms of sweet dreams,
And bright lights.

That soothing tapping,
Of raindrops hitting,
A freshly washed windshield,
Cradled against plush leather seats,
By tightly pulled seatbelt.

A loud crack of thunder,
Even sounds restful,
On the side of a well-worn highway,
Lighting the night sky,
Like a beacon of hope.

The sickly pitter-patter,
Of crimson drops hitting leather,
Contrasted to the beauty of the rain,
Trapped beneath seatbelts,
And bent metal.

Sweet soft drumming,
Of raindrops on my window,
And the ruined hood of my car,
If the lightning beacon doesn't bring help soon,
I am at least glad...
...to see one last rainstorm.