I used to be depressed
I was a whole other person
Somehow I got better,
And I’m never going to want to go back
Because I have felt happy
And I have felt confident
And for the first time in a long time I felt,
Free.
I free of the chains that brought me down
And I’m flying like a bird
But I’m just getting started
So, to all of you in the darkness
It does get better,
Trust me.
People say it a lot.
But if you stick it out,
If you go through our life
At some point
you’re going to get to the light at the end of the tunnel.
I promise

Is it weird I want to kiss you?
I’ve thought about doing it so many times
you’re right      there
and I'm right           here
I could just lean in, but that would be weird, right?
I don’t know if you like me back,
I’m not good at this whole romance thing.

i
have not
written a lot
I thought I didn’t
need to, but i’m wrong
i thought i escaped my problems
but i just pushed them to the back of my mind

one month clean
i’ve made it here before
then i didn’t think, and i fell,
back down to the floor,
maybe this time
i’ll make it to two
or three, or even four
i guess,
that’s what i’m hoping for

i didn’t think it through
i didn’t think that the cuts would be so noticeable
that i would feel ashamed
that i would have to hide them
that i wouldn’t be able to roll up my sleeves
that i would start holding my arms in different places
that whenever i was wearing a short sleeved shirt i would think about my scars
i didn’t think it would take so much effort to stay clean
that there would be no temptation

in the moment
i felt empty
numb
it was late
i should’ve gone to bed
but i didn’t
i had been thinking about it for a while
it was always tickling the back of my mind
not letting me forget
reminding me
the moment of feeling something
of feeling relief for a second
and i did it
i looked at the scissors
and gilded them across my wrist
then there was shame
and regret
and anger
that i went almost two months and threw it all away
i didn’t sleep that night
i tossed and turned
then pretended everything was fine

scars tell stories

how the ones on my right knee
say that i was a fun loving kid who skipped down a gravel hill
how my brother carried me back to my parents
how i felt proud about my scar and could tell all the kids on the playground how i got it

how the one on my right shin
shows that i love tromping through blackberry bushes
at camp with friends trying to find the biggest ones
it makes me relive the memory of being there with them

how the one on my left arm
shows that i was a stupid kid
and that i turned up the speed on that treadmill too much
and fell and got stuck with it burning my back and cutting into my arm

how the ones on my left wrist
show that i am fighting a war with myself
everyday
that i am trying to feel something besides nothing
that i want to be in control

scars tell stories
each one is a chapter in my life
that i am going to remember forever
some dark
some light
but they’re mine

this girl in my eyes is close to perfection
she’ll say she’s far from it
but i’ll just look at her face
i’ll see how strong she is
how she smiles
i’ll hear her laugh
her cry
and i’ll stand there with her
not expressing my attraction
but letting our friendship express some of it
sure she isn’t perfect
but i’ve accepted her flaws

People will look at the red lines on my wrist
and the tears lurking behind the mask
and they will continue on
not caring
not offering help
when I need it most
I’m slowly slipping
missing every single ledge
I grabbed one
but my fingers got too tired to hold on
and I’ve given up
I don’t know how to stop
I can't do it anymore
I’ve lost hope and I don’t know how to get it back
I’m being eaten from the inside
and no one can see it
it’s not worth it
I’m not worth it
no one would care
I’m not strong enough

it’s okay to not be okay.
you can say what you want.
But it’s just not your day.
You can say you fine,
but you know it’s fake
people ask what the want and you smile and wave,
but for their sake
you try to be positive.
Which sometimes hurts.
but sometimes there is the flicker
of happiness and laughter.
But when it’s over you realize.
you’re alone.
And you’re not okay.
And that’s okay.

Artist
he had always wanted to be an artist
except he practiced it
with his wrist as the canvas
his blood as the paint
and scissors, knives, and pencils
as the paintbrushes