The water is clear,
But your wrists are stained
Your face says happy,
But your eyes say pain.

Your eyes mean bees in my
throat, but the first time I
saw you it only felt like fire.
I don't think I realized that
is the only element I could
let myself go to, because
the beauty of it looks like
the burning of things better
left forgotten. Like lying
mirrors. Like blind trust.

The first time I thought you
would hold my hand, I was
wrong.  It was by my wrist
instead. I have never felt fear
like that, like razors. Sweet,
slippery red. I never thought
I'd be one to let myself fall
like that, but your skin looks
like a promise I can't keep.

So you've been doing well and you're engaged,
so nice. "Happy for you" doesn't begin to explain
the feeling I've been taking to bed every night.
When I get sad over life and
look at pictures of slit wrists,
I let the memories flood in.
Shuffling to our room in midday
dead set on apologies.
Finding you stretched out and half dead.
Finding you stretched out and half dead,
you said,
"You did this to me."

I bet I'd be better off if I'd left with my cigarettes
But as it stands I can wish you well,
and for your husband the same hell,
to reach the soul you never had.
I hope he's happy in laughter like me,
when I meet you in dreams.
I am not humble in memory.

Depression suffocates it's victims.

It engulfs their thoughts with nothing less
than the repetitive deafening drumming
that have been put on display through the
art work on my wrists.

'Oh no it's my cat, he's a scratcher'.

They look at me with pity in their eyes.
Stop it.
Stop looking down at me like a lost girl who needs guidance,
like a stupid girl who needs to pop a pill to make her smile.

I'm no clown,

I don't feel the need to draw on a smile.
As if I'd believe my own pathetic excuses.
But do you truly realise what agony my own soul is feeling?
Do you know I open my skin up to release my demons?
Do you know I cry to cleanse my body of the holy water I surely do not deserve.

Skin and bones.
Scarred and fragile.

I sit in a room full of boisterous people
still feeling like part of the wallpaper.
Still feeling like the transparent vase amidst the
decorated clay pots.
The colour of my life has been stripped back to the bare
blacks and whites.

We walk through life
Mostly strife
Some find suicide
While others
Cut their thighs

So many questions
One should ask
But never
Ever
Start with

Why

cut flowers
because we believe
that they are so wonderful

and our wrists
because we percieve
that we will never be beautiful

My wrists still hurt from
the day you grabbed my arm
and my cuts opened up
underneath my sleeve.
I pulled away
but I didn't mention the pain
because how do you tell someone
who has never shed a drop of blood in
their life,
that every part of you is bleeding.

She's one of those girls
He said
One who wears a lot of beads
Beads that stretch to her elbow

And with one look
The look of guilt
Shame
Knowing

He knew
He knew the look on my face
He knew I was like the girl with beads

Panic washed over his ghostly face
Hurt clouded his eyes
Pulling up my sweater sleeve
He saw nothing

A sigh of relief escaped his lips
But he did not realize
..He lifted the wrong sweater sleeve

s.j.d