My scars don't look like
They're more careful,
Organized, precise and
Not light, but
Never deep enough
Never deep enough
Never deep enough
Never deep enough.
People always ask why
I do such pretty patterns:
Because this is the only thing in life
That I can really control
And I find it so beautiful-
Though, not so much tragic.
My scars are not chaotic like a
They are consistent like a
Proof that I was awake
The whole time I was sleeping,
And I could feel everything
Even though I could tell no one.
Unconscious obsessive compulsion
Insists by instinct,
An intricate simplicity.
Still, I will 'ever envy
Those stitched gashes, once
Gushing with surrender and
Each raised and rough coarse collagen fiber
To form a white flag
Forever etched in flesh;
To tell the world
They, were a slave to freedom-
I am only a slave
bleeding hot red crayon wax
instead of blood.
I imagine how painfully
bright the color would be,
how intensely it would burn,
how quickly it would cool down,
how easily it would flake away.
I imagine how I
would have been injured
in the first place--
I imagine half-hearted attempts
to breach my own apathy
I think about the way I
am still such a child when it
comes to curiosity.
I imagine the scent of
the idea of always cutting
and never leaving scars,
that my heart being empty
might save me from
being weighed down.
I imagine bleeding
hot red crayon wax,
imagine no longer
imagine remembering pain,
but not really
understanding what it is.
You asked me "What's wrong?"
I asked you to count with me
One day you just stopped coming around
Two days have passed since my last meal and I'm still staring down the toilet hoping to empty whatever is left of me
Three words repeated over and over I love you I love you I love you I love you
4:00 a.m. showers letting the bathtub flow over hoping to drown the girl I hate because that's the girl I have become
Five bottles down moving onto number
Six daisies making a chain around my neck like a noose holding the measurement hoping that I'll at least be pretty when I die
Seven days every week I didn't want to get out of bed because how could I try and stand on solid ground when I'm sinking and everyone else around me is flying like
Eight smoke rings escaping my lips as I wish that maybe my last breath will float up with it
Nine hours I should be sleeping but instead I stare at that pill bottle did you know that
Ten out of Ten doctors will prescribe you with pills if you're even the slightest bit imbalanced in the brain
Nine years of prescriptions piling up ignored in fear of becoming a monster like the one they're trying to create
Eight cancer sticks at the bottom of my bag because addiction is addiction because it hurts the same
Seven minutes I count over and over did you know that's how long it takes to die by hanging I know because of
Six words you said
Five years ago "Why don't you just go kill yourself"
Four attempts in one month why can't I just die
Three hours spent sobbing on the bathroom floor with
Two bullets in
One gun shot bang!
Zero chances left
"There is nothing good
about that boy"
I told you.
"He is not smart,
he is not kind
and he is not attractive-"
and you are all those things
words drained from your mind
like the water pouring
out of the sink in the
bathroom of the bowling alley.
The next time I saw you,
really saw you--
so many months later,
so many episodes of mutilation later
so many experiments-gone-wrong later--
tears ran instead of tap water;
I failed you, my words failed you.
And now it's all happening again.
I try to convince her,
"there is nothing good about that girl
she is not intelligent,
she is not kind--
and she certainly isn't beautiful"
and she is all those things,
but my words run off her consciousness
the way tears run down cheeks,
she is soundproof,
I should have told her
the first instant I ever saw those cuts
I should have never let her
say she was okay
I'm losing my best friend
in the exact same way I've lost
my first one.
I'm losing her
to her depression,
to herself, to her broken mind--
and she won't hear me
no matter how loudly
I yell for her
to come back.
I heard the other day that love doesn't exist.
I was livid and spoke sour of their words,
as if 'I love you' was something I usually heard.
I sat in my bed that night
and thought about every 'I love you' I'd been missing
I thought to myself that love couldn't exist
and the last bit of your love was dripping off my skin
and that the last time you said 'I love you' was in pity and for pretend.
I sit in my desk now and write this rant-like piece,
knowing that my legs are sore
from my hips to my knees.
I think to myself that love couldn't exist,
if I cant even love myself enough to protect my own skin.
That if love existed, my heart wouldn't yearn,
even after all the nasty things I heard
that never failed to make me so sure
of the loss I had when I broke your heart.
If love didn't existed I wouldn't feel this burn
Love existed, I just couldn't be yours.
I usually count
as i go along,
I didn't last night
and awoke to a bloody shirt sleeve;
I always cut
in multiples of four.
brings into being
of aqueous despondency;
never out of reach.
I'm sitting on the edge,
the ultimate precipice
of things that cannot be undone.
I am tarnished,
scarred and bruised
with life's effigies burning
all around me.
Waging war on myself,
carving them out of my skin
to reign there
There's a split in my reality;
twenty months free of chemicals
I still catch myself
along serrated edges.
I usually count
in my arm;
worn as badges,
trophies of shame.
Twenty now lie,
as a platoon for battle;
purple and healing.
Winning the war,
I let them fade
until new enemies
come to rush my gates
coming home from a long day of school, i am welcomed by my mother's kisses yet it's the blade's that touch my cheek
i feel the long glides of hello's and how are you's creep up my veins and sleeves
my heart pounds like a hummingbird, except this time there's no bird but a desperate cry clawing at the door
my throat catches itself as i skip lunch with an empty stomach. my tears will be all that's left to ingest and the dining room will be my bathroom floor
i collapse on my knees drenched in uniform sweat, punching the tiles and marble décor
why is it, that every time i strip i reach for sharp edges instead of shower curtains?
why do my hands try to break the buildings of restraint? why are they strong enough to reach for the blades?
and why am i considered weak if i resort to such violence?
i cannot remember the last time my thighs looked bare
each time i recall, i see a naked canvas stained with red and purple
my individual hairs dipped in fresh cuts and my head spinning around in circles
each time i try to forget the lunch i skipped and the conversations of unspoken words i never said,
the skull behind my forehead trembles with regret
and i’ll remember how my heart would pound like the wings of a hummingbird
flying back and forth, clawing and tearing my chest open as i reach for the door
my mom awaits me with kisses to welcome me home
but i’ll be too eager to collapse on the bathroom floor
that I could just lock myself away
some place where nothing hurt
or at least
some place I couldn't
hurt anyone else.
promising I wouldn't hurt me
out of spite,
drowning out my wishes for death
just to prove something.
And those tears
sunk away into shaking hands,
those hands learned how to tremble
my lips, once used to holding back
"I love you"s
opened, just to breathe and let slip
a thousand lies
and a million dark shards of hatred.
trying not to hurt anyone else
against all of my spite
promising myself that
I could erase temptation with distractions.
I remember failing,
and hurting everyone around me
and that hurt me more
than any insipid razor
I just wish
that I had locked myself away
a long time ago.
Before I'd hurt him