#self-harm
The walls cry-out as they burn.
A tumult of roars wreathed in the crackle of blazing matter.
Which is louder?
Perspective will tell.
The one who assaults,
Or the one assaulted?
The roar, or the crackle?
The giver, or the receiver?
Pleasure in two forms, two-faced gratification.
One hand for dispensation,
One mouth for sublimation.
And do we not all sublimate?
Base impulses, rank ideas,
On the surface, vindicate?
The residue of consequence
Brusquely scrub and expiate?
Perspective will tell.
We espy hedonism, unbridled delight,
And may envy those who bathe in these muddied pools,
Focusing our most ephemeral sense on dazzling cacophony,
Ignoring the estranged husband of hedonism,
Shunning the divorcée of delight.
Which is truly louder?
Perspective will tell.
In Oscar Wilde’s Salome the moon is thus described:
“She is like a woman who is dead. She moves very slowly.”
Pandemonium in the hall, the howling of wild beasts,
But she remains “a woman who is dead,”
And “she moves very slowly.”
The divorcée of delight,
A pitiful coming-down.
The remnant of misuse,
The scarring of abuse.
One reads on a stone:
The hardly-lovéd daughter of overuse.
And the one who gazes overlong is warned:
“You look at her too much.
It is dangerous to look at people in such fashion.
Something terrible may happen.”
The walls cry-out as they burn,
And they cry in desperation.
What we see is conflagration.
The light: A brilliant exultation.
The crackle: A herald of termination.
But when ash is blown in silence,
It is dangerous to look at what remains:
Scar tissue.
Slow death.
Residue.
The head of John.
The bones of Salome.
Broken glass.
Wilted flowers.
Cracked foundation on hollow cheeks.
Red lips the stain of blood on ivory cloth.
Festering flies.
The beating of vultures’ wings.
The snoring of satiated beasts.
The stumbling home.
Apologies.
Sublimation.
Conflation.
Expiation.
…
One’s well-mannered pause until the other’s end,
So that the one may pause…
And begin again.
Mar 4, 2017
Mar 4, 2017 at 9:37 PM UTC
Oh your words
You bitter sweet words
Crushed my spirit
Crushed my soul
Words that cut deeper into my heart
Than a blade cutting into my flesh
Words so sharp
Sharper than razor
Mar 4, 2017
Mar 4, 2017 at 10:19 AM UTC
“I know what you’re thinking.”
Do you?
You can’t read me like an open book.
You have no idea what I truly think.
What makes you so sure I even see you as a friend like the way you see me?
You see me
as a studious girl, diligently finishing my work
as an intelligent girl, acing the tests in the subjects I’m good at
as a responsible girl, always carrying out my duties with zeal and efficiency
as a kind hearted girl, courteous and honest
You also see me
as a mean girl who gossips about others
as a conceited girl who brags on and on about herself
as a selfish girl who does things only if it is to her benefit
as a coward who is afraid of so many things
as a lazy *** who does nothing in weekends
The list goes on.
Just because you see the good and the bad of me, you think
you know me.
Do you?
Don’t be too quick to answer that question.
You will never know the nights I spend going insane
thinking about myself
thinking about you
thinking about others
You will never know about the times when I breakdown into a useless emotional wreck
with the tiniest action from someone
You will never know about the certain few nights and what I did to myself
and how I cry
on and on, nails digging deep into my palms, on and on, uncontrollably hyperventilating, on and on… even when I don’t want to.
You will never know about the content in my diary
what these words really mean
what my purposes are
You will never know about the way my brain is wired
about the way I see the world
about the way my mind is poisoned, tainted, corrupted, trained to manipulate, functioned to lie.
You don’t know me even if you think you do.
You don’t know about how much I fear myself while I type these words
while I’m thinking about the pain in my heart and how it is therapeutic.
My lips are parched, my throat is dry, my breath is coming out in slow deliberate long breaths.
My mind stays warped, damaged and tainted.
The edges of my eyes hurt from too much rubbing.
My heart is still hurting, as it does every day and night.
My eyes stay shut as I think about how I am going to survive tomorrow.
You ask me why I hate everyone. You ask me why I am so pessimistic. You ask me why I am so irritable. You ask me so many questions and you say
“I know what you’re thinking.”
Do you
when I don’t even know myself anymore?
Mar 4, 2017
Mar 4, 2017 at 8:46 AM UTC
one cool blade, against pale
skin pressing lightly just
a bit then a bit
harder
no red so again just a bit
harder, against the smooth
surface until it
breaks
pain does not shoot through
your veins it is merely
routine, one way of
relief
Mar 2, 2017
Mar 2, 2017 at 4:02 AM UTC
*“we break things not just as a means of release but also to see
some other thing broken aside from ourselves.”*
You asked me how
I got my hand broken
And I told you it’s
because the walls aren’t
getting any weaker
While I,
I am tired of trying hard
and I’m too worn out to fight
I am fed up with
all the things
I used to love
so I’ve been thinking ’bout
taking my life
but I see the walls
are all around
and I get the urge
to let it out
and so i do…
If I can no longer speak,
the walls would
for me;
they’d tell you a story
on how I turn
into something else
when I’m sad,
and how they stop me
when I’m not
in the right mind
and they’d tell you about
these little scars I have,
and all of the frustrations
I’m keeping inside.
You asked why and
I told you,
’cause they hear me,
when no one else will
and they feel it all,
every inch of my skin
when I lay it on them
so if walls could speak,
they’d tell you how I
hurt them
to hurt me
every single night.
Feb 28, 2017
Feb 28, 2017 at 2:21 AM UTC
self-harm
isn't always cutting
sometimes
it's ignoring your hunger
postponing your sleep
and picking at your face
every ******* time
it's listening to music
in maximum volume
pushing away your friends
and not turning on
the water heater when it's cold
but turning it on when it's hot
it is when you don't say anything
even though you're already dying
just so the people around you can live
without all the noise
Jan 19, 2017
Jan 19, 2017 at 6:33 AM UTC
I will walk with you, to the end of this earth that does not welcome you.
I will shine a light in every dark corner where you see hurt and pain.
I am yours to sit with for as long as you have to.
Until you can feel whole again.
Jan 18, 2017
Jan 18, 2017 at 4:30 PM UTC
I have a million scars
They all tell a different story
Some are small futile attempts at relief
Almost unnoticeable
but there all the same
They speak of desperate anxiety and release
Others are wide, gleaming red
Undeniably severe
Calling attention
To a mind once unwound
An attempt to destroy myself
Every scar is intimate
But up for honest inquiry
Of a genuine nature
An innocent curiosity
I will tell you about the scars
If you know how to ask
Dec 14, 2016
Dec 14, 2016 at 8:58 PM UTC
People that don't self harm
Don't seem to understand it.
But I don't expect them to.
First, it hurts, A LOT.
It hurts when you first do it
And it hurts the next day.
It hurts when your long sleeves rub against it
And it hurts when you look at what you did.
Next, cuts bleed, A LOT.
At first they don't bleed,
You start cutting deeper,
Then they bleed, a lot.
It doesn't stop bleeding.
Please don't tell me to just stop.
I can't just stop.
It's so addicting.
Even though I want to stop,
I can't.
It starts out as you control it,
But then it ends up controlling you.
You want to wear short sleeves?
Think again, you can't.
You want to go swimming with friends?
Oh yeah, they'll probably think you're crazy.
Every time you do it one more time,
It becomes more and more addicting.
Just one more you think, but no.
This is the last time, but it's not.
You can't just stop.
I don't mean to hurt the people around me.
In that moment, all I can think about is
Hurting myself.
I'm sorry for hurting everyone else
While I'm hurting myself.
Nov 16, 2016
Nov 16, 2016 at 8:57 AM UTC
A Glistened blade with the serrated edge. Lays down on the floor christened with crimson. The limp but clinging to life hand dangles over the edge of the single bed.
Sobbing is heard from the bed, laying face down is our victim of self disgust and loathing.
Our victim
ME.
Oct 23, 2016
Oct 23, 2016 at 12:06 AM UTC
I'll show you these scars and the stories they tell,
The things that I carry and the things I hide well.
You'll listen with the grace and poise that's expected,
But I'll fear when I'm done I'll find myself rejected.
Some time has healed, while others have not,
Some I've fixed, while others I've left and now rot.
You'll try to soothe them through kisses and words,
But deep inside me the river of pain is still stirred.
But they're not yours to fix and not mine to keep,
It's not through you my relief I should seek.
I've carried these things and I carry them still,
I can overcome them now through my own will.
I just ask that you'll believe me and on me risk,
A life we can build on a first and a last kiss.
Oct 22, 2016
Oct 22, 2016 at 9:37 PM UTC
Put ice on your wrists,
Or wherever the scars usually appear,
And hold it for five to ten minutes,
The urge should disappear,
Along with the sensation in your veins
The signals to you
That you're about to black out.
If you don't have ice,
Apply pressure with your hands.
Bonus points if they're cold.
Don't allow yourself to become too aware
Of the blood in your veins.
Breathing exercises help too,
And while you're at it try grounding yourself.
Count how many things you can see up to five.
Then count four things you can hear.
Three you can touch,
Two you can smell,
And one you can taste.
Make a list of what calms you,
Make a list of what gives you bliss,
See how many things go between each.
Talk yourself down,
Remind yourself you can't do this.
Remind yourself you have to remember.
Don't focus on the trigger.
Forget it,
Quickly.
Distract yourself.
Something you can hear-- Music.
Something you can taste-- Gum.
Something you can feel-- Your lion.
Something you can smell-- His sweatshirt.
But what do you focus on?
You can't seem to find a fixed point to keep your eyes on,
And the threat of a black out is receding,
But why did it start?
You can't even remember what set you off.
Your hands are soaked.
The ice cubes melted on your wrists.
Oct 10, 2016
Oct 10, 2016 at 8:33 PM UTC
These parts feel like a lie I am giving to this world,
but it doesn't throw me back a sneer,
it pretends it doesn't know.
I am carving my skin with questions,
but it bleeds back no answers,
only trophies in the shape of these scars.
I am clawing myself out,
but the pit feels like quicksand,
the more I want out the more it takes me in.
I am half a person, half a ghost
already burying myself
inside the casket of my own skin.
If these gods were real
they'd have made us of sturdier stuff
than hearts that break apart at the slightest whisper.
Oct 1, 2016
Oct 1, 2016 at 1:19 PM UTC
When I was fifteen years old I came home from school one day and wrote a poem instead of cutting myself.
The next day I didn't write a poem.
Eighteen only wrote poetry in red.
Nineteen crawled under their desk with the lights turned off.
Twenty had panic attacks.
But thirteen still loved the world.
And ten only cared about going out to play.
And nine never thought growing up to be a gender would hurt so much.
But twenty-one can't breathe in this skin anymore.
And twenty-one doesn't want a twenty-two anymore.
And nineteen tried to pretend these feelings weren't real.
And fifteen tried to eradicate all the feelings altogether.
And seventeen just cried a lot.
My years have come together to unfold me into a disaster.
I am broken even in my most whole parts.
I am empty even on my most alive days.
If you send out a SOS into my chest the sound will ring off into its empty chambers and only answer itself.
Sep 26, 2016
Sep 26, 2016 at 8:12 AM UTC
cutting ties that bind - by Kristie
So I cut myself with a knife
just to see if I can still feel any thing in this pathetic life
But I feel nothing at all
as I watch my crimsom blood fall
I score my skin, deeper and deeper, push the knife in
nothing..... not even a sting...absolutely nothing
I fantically seek a virginal place I can carve, cut away my hate
self loathing, disgust, as I look at myself, what a ******* state
Waiting to faint, as my blood seeps and escapes
but as if mocking me, I have to wait
relief comes at a price, a deadly cost
and reminds me of all that i've lost
tired and sleepy, waiting for death to collect me
I've planned for no one to save me, finally be free
one last slice, just to ensure
deep across artery, my blood pumps no more
Sep 25, 2016
Sep 25, 2016 at 10:55 PM UTC
Epitaph (by KT)
19 September 2012 at 12:11
Write me a poem.
Use the words you were born with,
The words you grew up with,
The words you speak everyday of your life.
Don't bring me a rose from a garden you did not grow.
Better the thick green stalk of a ****
Grown wild and unbidden
Behind the steps of your back porch.
Better a handful of parched grass
Plucked fitfully from your own lawn.
Write me a poem
And let me hear your voice.
Unsmooth, raucous,
Irritating as the sound of a rusty tricycle trundling by.
Let me see your face.
Scarred and uncared for,
Unwashed and unshaven,
Tender and sad.
Write me a poem
And deliver it to my mossy grave
With a ragged bunch of flowers
Planted and picked by your hand
And read me your words.
I WILL LISTEN.
And beneath the earth
And upon the winds
And across the seas
I will sound my applause
In the song of the tiny sparrow
As she flies forever home.
Sep 23, 2016
Sep 23, 2016 at 2:44 PM UTC
CUTTING THE TIES THAT BIND
So I cut myself with a knife
just to see if I can still feel anything in this pathetic life
But I feel nothing at all
as I watch my crimson blood fall
I score my skin, deeper and deeper, push the knife in
nothing..... not even a sting...absolutely nothing
I frantically seek a virginal place I can carve, cut away my hate
self loathing, disgust, as I look at myself, what a ******* state
Waiting to faint, as my blood seeps and escapes
but as if mocking me, I have to wait
relief comes at a price, a deadly cost
and reminds me of all that i've lost
tired and sleepy, waiting for death to collect me
I've planned for no one to save me, finally be free
one last slice, just to ensure
deep across artery, my blood pumps no more
My Journey Through Madness
#illness #self-harm #selfharm #mentalhealth
Sep 23, 2016
Sep 23, 2016 at 2:18 PM UTC
"you've acquired new scars,
birthed since the last time,
i saw you so bare."
he buries his arousing discovery
into my patchwork skin
kissing each neat slit like they make him want me more
like the ground within his bones begin to rattle, losing control
forcing him to rip open the barely healed seams and watch my blood pour
his gaunt eyes seeping with lust
"i love you, my girl,
regardless of the controversy you create."
though we know it isn't regardless of,
it's because of
which is why, in 6 months to this date,
when it's time to want me again
exposing me to the slaughterhouse beauty pageant we become
he will discover further harm,
wounds dedicated to his fleeting lust
Aug 31, 2016
Aug 31, 2016 at 10:04 PM UTC
Red run
Red run
Red run
shines bright
covered in blood
jagged edge
Red run
3 by 3
leave no line, leave no mark
I fool them
Aug 19, 2016
Aug 19, 2016 at 9:30 PM UTC
The metal blade
That kissed your skin
Will nor remove the pain
Nor form scars
To match the ones
Formed by betrayal upon
Your heart
The seeping blood
So crimson
Enticing
Will not wash away
They way that tears do
The sadness you may feel
Spent on people who
Mistreat you
But they are fools
And so beneath you
And their razor blade tongues
Cut into you
But you will rise above
Their hurtful words
Like blood red roses
In the snow
And from the ashes of
Your broken self
We'll see the fire of
Your beautiful spirit
And we'll have roses for ashes then
© 2011 Vincent S. Coster
Aug 6, 2016
Aug 6, 2016 at 4:41 AM UTC
we ditched the main path and ran up the mountain bike trail,
gained some elevation,
we found the rusted remains of a car wreck off the side of the trail
that must have been sixty years old.
afterwards we shared nachos and modelo especial,
that was nice.
my body was wrapped in the warm pink blanket
rocking on the wicker chair as you
paced back and forth on the front of the porch and I
couldn’t hear the devil speaking from between your lips because my eyes were softly shut,
my being a blind cloud floating
softly in the nighttime cigarette smoke,
the part of me you were trying to hurt was the insides floated out,
just a cloud watching the clear night sky
and the cupid's arrows and the knives hurling
back and forth back and forth blew right through me,
because I was somewhere else.
but babe you are so sharp!
so I came back together to run inside and grab my pocket knife,
I sat down on the steps by the side of the porch where you couldn’t see me but you could
and sliced a dramatic **** on my right thigh
13 cm length 5 mm width
the blood flowed fantastically, unexpectedly fast dark and shocking, trickling down my leg
just like when you come inside me and I stand up.
I did it for the devil, and so you’d pause the devilry and take care of me
which you know how I like and which you did,
taking the blade from my hand putting an arm around me
examining and cleaning the wound
the blood staining your jeans
pooling wasted on the concrete.
later in the night I chucked the knife into the grass far away
where it remained neglected till the morning
when I came to collect it.
you fall asleep so fast in my bed baby, even when
the night’s been so bad, even when the
moon’s out full and the clouds blown all away
the devil floating softly ubiquitous.
you start to sweat softly and small twitches play across you
from the nightmares playing ubiquitous in your conscious unconscious
I watch you sleep and watch the sweat collect in droplets on your skin
thinking you look like a wet angel hoping you’ll never wake up
I wonder, do abusers learn from their abusers how to hurt?
the way you love baby the way you love it feels
a lot like hurt
Aug 4, 2016
Aug 4, 2016 at 3:58 AM UTC
The truth is, I'm just another mutant kid. Fused at the wrists and hips, these scars will tell you how I've lived.
I've seen the Son's face, if it wasn't for His grace, I don't know how I would have survived this place.
Your songs reminded me that I don't always have to be strong, that my tears weren't always wrong. My Savior offers me haven from the demons that plague this place.
My home is dark and cold, but He set fire to my bones. He set my soul ablaze and I made haste to escape this dreadful place.
I've thrown away all my ammunition, put aside all my false traditions. I've canceled all my plans, I've proven the enemy as a scam.
And now instead of taking it out on my wrist, I've turned my gun to a fist.
Jul 31, 2016
Jul 31, 2016 at 9:49 PM UTC
Hot, blistering weather;
People ask me how I'm so comfortable with it.
How there's not a single drop of sweat on me.
I thought of it as odd at first;
But I came to the realization
That my body has completely disregarded
The hellish climate because
the real burn was happening in me.
Blood boils
as I think about how I was pathetically treated.
How I was entirely misunderstood,
unappreciated.
Swollen knuckles start to show,
They ask me about them,
But even I don't know what I hit.
Was it the lamp post?
Or was it the wall?
I can't remember.
Red lines
appear on my forearm,
They ask again,
And I still can't seem to recall
how such beauty has been painted
on my skin.
Was I the artist?
I can't remember.
I can't stand their interrogations
anymore.
I stop thinking for a minute.
I break a sweat.
They think I'm okay now.
(c.j.p.)
Jul 24, 2016
Jul 24, 2016 at 10:47 PM UTC
Today I woke up.
That's great right?
Then why do I feel like it was a mistake?
Today I didn't even want to get out of bed.
My 3 year old yelling at me for food,
all I could do was cry.
I woke up wanting to die.
I woke up hurting inside.
I woke up with tears in my eyes.
Today I slipped.
Its been four years
since the last time the blade sliced my skin
as easy as 1,2,3.
And today I threw it all away.
For what?
Jul 11, 2016
Jul 11, 2016 at 10:25 PM UTC
My hand hovering above him, I hesitate.
There is a glint in his eye.
Slowly I pick him up, just feel the weight.
We always meet when I feel hopeless, he promises so much, absolution, complete freedom and yet, I cannot seem to fully accept. I refuse him; deny.
He somewhat quells my despair.
Roaming up and down my skin.
Tending to me when I can't let anyone else in.
Arms, legs, chest stomach, especially a thigh.
To me, he feels at home there.
Never does he question; ask why.
He's always ready; on standby.
Jul 8, 2016
Jul 8, 2016 at 8:30 AM UTC