awake from my dream state.it was a leap of faithbut i wish someone had pushed meso i had someone to blame
unlovenot all self harm comes in the obvious form of lines up arms or down thighsof throwing up insides and self worthinto toilet bowls with the soundsthat make you wonder how you're not dead.she picked at her lips constantly cracking and splittingpeeling and bleedingit stungmore than expectedand it bledmore than ever anticipatedeven after she's been doing it all dayshe drank her tea that was still steamingstill made her hands flinch from the far too hot porceline but she parted lipsand felt it force it way downburning and splittingher lips and throatbefore settlinglike molten in herash filled stomachtiny fingers pinching, squeezingpulling on skinmaking underneath itburstand bloomher blood like water colourexploding and spreadingand mixing overthighs and stomachsno-one thinks to noticethe bruisesthey're accidentalright?
[tremble]mother always told her the things that she never wanted to face. like when she learned there are parts of her body that she should hide and not let others see. the marks that scale her thighs from her skin warping from the numbers ticking and her valleys and mountains appearing and disappearing. or the scars she gave herself in grade nine when her small frame couldn't handle all the feelings that were building up inside her and the weight sagged and broke something and she tore herself apart looking for the reason.it was winter when she turned twenty-one, and she told mother that she felt strange, like all the little things she'd built up in herself, collected over the years had washed over, or been left behind. mother told her that her skin is like the leaves and it will change in colour and it will eventually shed itself in the span of 7 years. she'd already changed twice, but she was feeling it more than ever because by the time your twenty-one, you've already lost so ma
navigation_CI close my eyes and all I see is snow-capped mountains, waterfalls rushing to the tune of our rotation, star-filled nights. We are alone. No one can touch us here, can tear your hand away from mine. We're just laughter and soft silhouettes, our shadows blending into the background. Your fingers through my hair and you whisper you love me and everything is okay, everything is where it should be.the night outside is cold, and the spark thats jumping between us is too delicate to be left out in this lack of oxygen. but theres something in the stars tonight that seems to tell me that the waves in my chest aren't going to be lasting too much longer. you've got aloe vera fingertips, and they're soothing inside and outside of me.I count to ten and close my eyes, wondering if you'll still be here when they open again. I count the seconds, days, months, fervantly waiting for the afternoon I come home and find a message from you signed all my love and goodbye until you kiss away my fears and w
stuck to the back of my throat.yesterday i saw you in cracks of my staircaseand inbetween the pages of my class novel.you look like hell, and i thought thedarkened circles under your eyesresembled the colour i think mylove for you would probably be.its saddening that the thick oxygenatedpurple and red mix is kind of likewhat i saw once one oneof those anti smoking commercialsspilling forth from a dissected lung.thats what you are.you're my personal cancer.
not all humans go to heavencock itapril 23 2008“bye mom. i love you so much, i sweari’ll be home soon.”“please, you’re only eighteen, you have yourwhole life ahead of you, pleasedon’t throw it away.”“i’m going, mom. i’m going overseasbut i swear i’ll be back before youmiss me. love you!”aim it.nowmost nights he shakes himself awakewith the vision of bombs and fire and bulletsstill imprinted on his eyelids.he doesn’t know what to call them.the dreams, i mean.what do you call bad dreams whenyou’ve already lived the nightmare?his therapist says his problemis he thinks he’s not normal, that he doesn’t fit,that he’s a special kind of monster.she tells him that the key is figuring out the waysthat he’s the same.so when he’s alone, or worried or stressedor tired or hurt or wishing he were dead,he traces over his collarbone and saysclavicle
A writer's soulI write to express myselfin ways that nobody knows how toI write to feel in this worlda way to let hope go onI write to understand myselfas well for people to know how I feelI write to believe in myselfa way to know that this life is worth livingI write within my hearta way to let out my true emotionsI write to express these wordsthat I wish for people to understandI write deep within my soulthis darkness beneath this life I liveI write all these words on paperto let out these inner feelings tearing me awayI write deep within myselfto let out the emotions deep withinI write to express these wordsas a way to show that I have true feelingsA writers soul deep withina feeling nobody will fully understandCause I write these words on paperto show people that I am REAL in this world