#slits
It's like I've written volumes of reasonable responses,
But burnt the pages in the furnace of my lonely subconscious.
Being hardly conscious of what defines responsible,
I'm slacking, toying with a recent lacking sense of passion.
Another constable and I'm basket-cased,
Basking in darker masks,
because I've abandoned the single greatest answer to my asking.
There's a fine line between an open mind and empty head.
There's a long bridge between actions being taken rather than words just being said.
I'm quite the sweet talker,
Candy words from a bitter tongue tied to a head filled with resentment and a body that carries rotting lungs.
I'm quite the mediator, I can lie and you'll love me for it, but I'm sure you know the rest,
I mean, you've gambled your heart for it,
Always reading the wrong words from the right lips.
I'll have you know I'm fully aware of the damage I cause, and full of sorrow over the time you've lost.
I've done what I can,
And what I couldn't do,
I tried,
I've changed what I can,
And when I couldn't,
I would lie.
Yet you would lie there with me,
Hoping for the best when the truth is we both know in reality this is all that there is.
This is all that there ever was, yet God thought it'd be funny to play a joke instead.
This is no laughing matter, I mean look at what's come from it;
Empty cabinets, soiled carpet, and a part of me that's dead.
All the patrons called and the tablecloths gone cause of the nosebleed stains of the house favorites flaws,
The demons that I seek met the skeletons I keep to pay the rent to all the scars I let them crash inside for weeks.
And boy, are they deep.
The scars, the demons, the skeletons in my closet.
And it bleeds through me-
And it bleeds.
From blue collars in Bangkok looking to keep up,
To college dollars wasted looking for a new rush.
It's incredible, absolutely, that everything went to hell over false power;
It's a tragedy, but nothing new that it all drowned due to fine powder.
So many will claim me,
But there is no home I know.
You'll try to save me,
But out the gates I'll go.
The best way to complicate is to simply not decide;
The only way I can compensate is to burn myself alive.
It's my two cents that I'm at a loss of sentience,
And I can't feel to the touch.
Regardless of if it makes much sense;
I'm not empathic anymore.
I have a lack of emotion.
I'm morally bankrupt,
And right down to the bone marrow-
I can't feel to love.
Can I show you my scars?
May I expose what it is that has torn me apart?
We can both serve as surgeons;
Sewing slits in the uniform that once resembled skin.
Sad chords and body sores reveal false power and faint accord.
I need them both but highs nor lows are something I can afford.
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 10:08 AM UTC
Yiska slits
her thin wrist
-broken glass
in a bin
in the ward
what a find-
the blood comes
plentiful
beautiful
she reckons
sitting back
in the bath
of water
motherly
and warming
reddening
but a nurse
on duty
looking to
tell Yiska
the doctor
wanted her
finds her there
in the bath
drifting off
and blood soaked
EMERGECY
SUICIDE
the nurse yells
up the ward
-locked up ward
those who are
mentally
unstable
are caged here-
I am in
the main lounge
looking out
the window
snows falling
some robin
perches there
on a branch
Yiska said
earlier
she'd make it
out of here
one way or
the other
there's a rush
of nurses
and a quack
follows up
half way through
-I'm guessing-
his breakfast
there's egg yoke
at the side
of his mouth
poor Yiska
so depressed
no way out
she told me
but I guess
watching the
brave robin
sitting there
that there is
if you look
really hard
to get out
out somewhere.
Jun 5, 2015
Jun 5, 2015 at 2:38 AM UTC
kirihiraki
kimono
opens
slowly
Aug 22, 2020
Aug 22, 2020 at 10:33 PM UTC
_Trigger warning: Self harm, cutting_
How could it be that the blood on my wrist
Brings peace to my troubled mind
Forces a sharp focus
Evens my frantic breath
It's what I needed
I needed this
I needed these slits
Nov 12, 2019
Nov 12, 2019 at 9:54 PM UTC