Each line tells a story,
A story she would never
Want
Or be able to erase.
The story of a girl
Trying,
With valiant force,
To find her place
In this harrowed world.
This girl knew sometimes
The pain became so
Overwhelming,
And she, so weak,
hopeless,
Needing to feel,
Something, anything,
Other than this inner agony.
And there seemed no other way out.
Finding solace only
In sharp razors,
Box cutters, knives,
Slashing, tearing, ripping skin apart
Red warmth healing all
Emotional wounds.
Many years past,
Many scabs picked
Later,
Now healed,
This broken girl
Now “fixed”,
Carries arms covered
In white lined stories
Of her battles
Won ?
Lost?
Survived.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Survival of the Fittest
What a sullen girl
So broken and empty
No trace of affection
Alive in her delicate body.
So full of anger,
So quiet with grief,
For every man she’s taken
The time and effort
To form a connection,
Has beaten, bruised,
And torched small,
But very significant,
Bits of her soul.
She cared too much
Or so they told her.
But when did caring
Become such a horrible concept?
If it were still
Darwin’s Survival of the Fittest,
Would she be killed off for simply
Giving a damn?
Yes, she tried to see the best
In people, the world, love.
But even optimism seems to be
An undesirable trait for survival
In this cold, brutal world,
Where no one cares, and
Everyone dies.
So broken and empty
No trace of affection
Alive in her delicate body.
So full of anger,
So quiet with grief,
For every man she’s taken
The time and effort
To form a connection,
Has beaten, bruised,
And torched small,
But very significant,
Bits of her soul.
She cared too much
Or so they told her.
But when did caring
Become such a horrible concept?
If it were still
Darwin’s Survival of the Fittest,
Would she be killed off for simply
Giving a damn?
Yes, she tried to see the best
In people, the world, love.
But even optimism seems to be
An undesirable trait for survival
In this cold, brutal world,
Where no one cares, and
Everyone dies.
That First Thanksgiving
I wrote this last spring for my poetry class. Not sure how i feel about it...
It was the first Thanksgiving
Since they gave me that
World-spinning diagnosis,
Even just the name of it,
Stuck in my throat with the bile,
Burning my esophagus
As I stared at a full plate.
It had been months
So I must be doing well…
Despite my constant inner battle
Everytime I glanced at myself,
Naked and vulnerable in the mirror.
But I hid my fear,
and disgust,
Only checking labels when I was alone,
And hopping on the scale
when we visited my grandmother
(Ours was in a dump somewhere,
rusting, unused.)
But now,
now I had to take it all in,
The turkey, stuffing, potatoes…
Carbs, fat, and more carbs.
Butter? No thanks, I’ll pass.
Gravy? Never.
They watch me, closely,
Hawk eyes, furrowed on their prey.
Each spoonful tastes sour,
With the anxiety bubbling up the back of my throat,
Knowing they would not be satisfied,
Until that plate was clean of all debris.
I know tonight I will hide in my room
Doing hours of crunches until I cannot bend.
But for now, I clear my plate with a full-toothed smile.
“That was delicious.”
It was the first Thanksgiving
Since they gave me that
World-spinning diagnosis,
Even just the name of it,
Stuck in my throat with the bile,
Burning my esophagus
As I stared at a full plate.
It had been months
So I must be doing well…
Despite my constant inner battle
Everytime I glanced at myself,
Naked and vulnerable in the mirror.
But I hid my fear,
and disgust,
Only checking labels when I was alone,
And hopping on the scale
when we visited my grandmother
(Ours was in a dump somewhere,
rusting, unused.)
But now,
now I had to take it all in,
The turkey, stuffing, potatoes…
Carbs, fat, and more carbs.
Butter? No thanks, I’ll pass.
Gravy? Never.
They watch me, closely,
Hawk eyes, furrowed on their prey.
Each spoonful tastes sour,
With the anxiety bubbling up the back of my throat,
Knowing they would not be satisfied,
Until that plate was clean of all debris.
I know tonight I will hide in my room
Doing hours of crunches until I cannot bend.
But for now, I clear my plate with a full-toothed smile.
“That was delicious.”
Invisible
This was my first real poem as i started to get into poetry at age 11 as a means to express all the crappy emotions inside me. I was just a kid, but honestly i still feel this way sometimes. the feeling of being unnoticed, invisible, never left me.
Invisible
I am invisible,
Well I might as well be,
No one sees me
No one enjoys my company.
I am invisible,
Well I might as well be.
I walk into school,
No one knows I’m there
I feel unwanted
Like nobody really cares.
“You’re so great!” I never hear.
“You’re a good friend,” would be music to my ears.
I am invisible,
Well I might as well be.
So I hide,
I crawl into my shell,
Pretend my problems aren’t there
Even though I know well
They will never disappear ,
They will always be there.
I might as well be invisible,
No one would care.
Invisible
I am invisible,
Well I might as well be,
No one sees me
No one enjoys my company.
I am invisible,
Well I might as well be.
I walk into school,
No one knows I’m there
I feel unwanted
Like nobody really cares.
“You’re so great!” I never hear.
“You’re a good friend,” would be music to my ears.
I am invisible,
Well I might as well be.
So I hide,
I crawl into my shell,
Pretend my problems aren’t there
Even though I know well
They will never disappear ,
They will always be there.
I might as well be invisible,
No one would care.
Friday, August 13, 2010
You
You
Empty soulless
Shell of a human being
You
Stole the one person
I never thought would
Could
Abandon me.
But you proved me,
Us,
Wrong.
You
Altered the meaning of
Forever
From solid friendship
to forever,
minus
one year
of agony, hatred,
aches in the pit of
my stomach.
The most horrible
Betrayal
I’ve ever felt.
All because of
You
The filthy miserable bitch
Who ruins other people’s
Lives, happiness,
To make her own life
Look less
pitiful.
You
Don’t love anyone,
Not even your own
Flesh and blood.
You
Destroy everything
Just to stand by
And watch the
fire burn
And people die
And souls turn
black as ash
And clouds of thick
Grey smoke
Suffocate innocent
Bystanders.
You
Will never
Truly be loved
For the real
Monster
You are.
And one day
You
Will burn
For all the people
You’ve maimed
And the destruction
You
Caused.
You
The filthy bitch
Who ruins
All that is
Could
Or ever would
Be good.
Empty soulless
Shell of a human being
You
Stole the one person
I never thought would
Could
Abandon me.
But you proved me,
Us,
Wrong.
You
Altered the meaning of
Forever
From solid friendship
to forever,
minus
one year
of agony, hatred,
aches in the pit of
my stomach.
The most horrible
Betrayal
I’ve ever felt.
All because of
You
The filthy miserable bitch
Who ruins other people’s
Lives, happiness,
To make her own life
Look less
pitiful.
You
Don’t love anyone,
Not even your own
Flesh and blood.
You
Destroy everything
Just to stand by
And watch the
fire burn
And people die
And souls turn
black as ash
And clouds of thick
Grey smoke
Suffocate innocent
Bystanders.
You
Will never
Truly be loved
For the real
Monster
You are.
And one day
You
Will burn
For all the people
You’ve maimed
And the destruction
You
Caused.
You
The filthy bitch
Who ruins
All that is
Could
Or ever would
Be good.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Slice
This isn't finished, but I honestly don't know where I was going with this. Its an autiobiography of sorts, but also sort of an explanation, and raw inside look to self-mutilation. It doesn't fully explain the addiction by any means, but the basic underlying reasoning behind my self-mutilation was to live..at first anyway. I kept me from feeling so overwhelmingly lonely, depressed, angry, and disgusted with myself that I was able to atleast keep breathing, even if it was a shitty means of existance. I guess...I'm explaining too much. Just read it. If you want.
SLICE
There was no indication that this day would be any different from the rest. Another miserable waste of breath. Another whirlwind of overwhelming emotions. Emotions that most girls her age were not accustomed too, and by no means ready to digest. It seemed to her that she experienced life differently from her peers, which was ultimately her social downfall. Rarely did that phone ring for her, although she longed for someone to call. Anyone. Just someone to reach out to her and let her know that life is not hopeless. But no matter how long she stared at the phone, begging it to ring, it never did.
And today was not any different. Until, she couldn’t take it any longer.
She wasn’t even sure where the idea had come from. School? Television? No. It simply seemed like her only escape. Everything seemed hazy as she fumbled around her bedroom, looking for a sharp object of some kind. She tossed around the idea of getting a knife from the kitchen, but she didn’t want to get caught. Instead, she settled on a mildly sharp pair of scissors. She examined them for a moment, touching the edge to her fingertip to see if it was sharp enough to break skin. It would have to do. She sat down cautiously on the edge of her bed, contemplating her next move. Suddenly, every bit of pain, anger, guilt, sadness, and regret swept over her body like waves crashing on the ocean shore. And not just regular waves, but waves carrying an abundance of sharp rocks, causing agony with each smash against the sand. Tears threatened to escape from her eyes as she held her breath and put the sharp edge of the scissor on the flesh of her forearm. Slice. Slice. Slice. Three times. And that’s all it took. The agony was replaced with warmth, the waves now gentle and calming. Suddenly she felt nothing. And that’s how she wanted to feel all along. Nothing. Because feelings cause too much pain.
Maybe if she had known after that day, nothing would ever be the same, she would had never have done it. Or maybe that was the point. She didn’t want things to be the same anymore, she wanted an escape. And that day, she found that escape from all emotions, and she also found a reliable friend and companion. That friend was self-mutilation.
It became a ritualistic addiction. Always 3 times. The deeper, the better. Once or twice she carved words into her arm, without even being fully aware she was doing it. Once she saw blood, she was hypnotized, which caused her to cut unnecessarily deep at times. She hid her cuts, always wearing a brown zip-up sweatshirt, simply because she didn’t want to explain her habits to people who would not understand. But in reality, she loved those slices in her skin. They were almost accomplishments, to this sick girl. Moments when she conquered emotions, and won! Or so she thought. Sometimes, when no one was looking, she’d sneak a look at her most recent abrasion. Just seeing it there, red and painful, made her feel relaxed. Hell, as time went on, she began to like the scars too. Each scar represented a battle won, and made her feel victorious and almost proud.
Now, no one said this girl was completely sane. But can you blame her? She had been diagnosed with depression by age 12, and was tired of FEELING all the time. Feeling is rather draining, and she had nothing left to give. She was ultimately cutting to keep herself from giving up entirely. She was cutting to feel less, because the more she felt, the more she wanted to end it.
Every cut and scar was a battle for her life.
Soon enough, she was cutting every time she felt something she didn’t want to feel. If she was ridiculed, or embarrassed. Slice Slice Slice. If she was lonely or hurt. Slice Slice Slice. Anxious. Guilty. Depressed. Angry. Annoyed. Slice Slice Slice. She hid razors in her room, and even kept one in her backpack in case she needed a “fix” during school. She was only desperate enough to use it in school once. She was smart, and knew it was more of a private affair…she learned to avoid the mess of blood stains on her clothes. She didn’t need a reason for anyone to question her, and a blood stain was a very hard to hide. Band-aids were a must, infection not an option. Scabs always picked at, to make the cut bleed warm red once again. It was her only comfort in a cold world. The most warmth she had felt in years is after bringing the razor blade to her thin white arm. The blood…oh the magnificent blood…it rushed down her arm in warm streams. And she often let it drip onto a towel, until she was able to snap out of her endorphin induced coma. She was hooked.
She still couldn’t connect with the world around her, but she had given up trying. While other kids her age were discovering the amazing high they got from smoking weed, and how exhilarating it was to steal their Daddy’s beer, she was hiding in her room with a razor blade to her arm. Her peers were finding new means of mental and physical addiction, but she was already a full blown addict. She could barely go a day without it, and there was never a moment where she could shut her eyes without seeing skin being torn apart by a sharp razor. Instead of a small plastic baggy of weed, she was hiding razors and band aids in her purse. She was not a normal teenager. But who really noticed? She stayed out of trouble, got good grades, and kept her bleeding arms covered by baggy sweatshirts. She was invisible. Unnoticed. Which I guess is why no one realized she was slipping further and further into the deep end. It would only be a matter of weeks before she drowned.
One thing that led her to self-mutilation was a need for some kid of control in her life. By cutting, she could control how she felt, if she even wanted to feel at all, which most times she didn’t. However, as her habit evolved into an addiction, her control seemed to disappear. Soon, she was cutting daily, sometimes with no specific reason or emotion. She could be in a perfectly fine mood, but she wouldn’t feel complete until she put three slashes in her arm. She was consumed. She’d plan her life around her addiction. Finding specific moments to be alone in her room...planning appropriate ways to hide her wounds…developing detailed excuses for why there were millions of tiny cuts on her arm, in case some inquisitive soul caught a glimpse. A cat scratched me. A lot. You have a cat? Uhh…no…my neighbor’s cat. Yea. She’s an angry son of a bitch.
She felt herself falling, but every time she reached out, she only grabbed air. She felt herself screaming for help, but her vocal chords wouldn’t make the sound. Still, no one noticed. She slipped deeper. Depression hit full force. Getting out of bed every morning seemed pointless when there was nothing to live for except self-mutilation. She discovered she was no longer cutting to sustain life, because she found herself holding the blade to her wrist on more than one occasion, pleading for the courage to do it. End it all. The suffering. The agony. The loneliness. All of it, gone, with one deep slice on each wrist.
SLICE
There was no indication that this day would be any different from the rest. Another miserable waste of breath. Another whirlwind of overwhelming emotions. Emotions that most girls her age were not accustomed too, and by no means ready to digest. It seemed to her that she experienced life differently from her peers, which was ultimately her social downfall. Rarely did that phone ring for her, although she longed for someone to call. Anyone. Just someone to reach out to her and let her know that life is not hopeless. But no matter how long she stared at the phone, begging it to ring, it never did.
And today was not any different. Until, she couldn’t take it any longer.
She wasn’t even sure where the idea had come from. School? Television? No. It simply seemed like her only escape. Everything seemed hazy as she fumbled around her bedroom, looking for a sharp object of some kind. She tossed around the idea of getting a knife from the kitchen, but she didn’t want to get caught. Instead, she settled on a mildly sharp pair of scissors. She examined them for a moment, touching the edge to her fingertip to see if it was sharp enough to break skin. It would have to do. She sat down cautiously on the edge of her bed, contemplating her next move. Suddenly, every bit of pain, anger, guilt, sadness, and regret swept over her body like waves crashing on the ocean shore. And not just regular waves, but waves carrying an abundance of sharp rocks, causing agony with each smash against the sand. Tears threatened to escape from her eyes as she held her breath and put the sharp edge of the scissor on the flesh of her forearm. Slice. Slice. Slice. Three times. And that’s all it took. The agony was replaced with warmth, the waves now gentle and calming. Suddenly she felt nothing. And that’s how she wanted to feel all along. Nothing. Because feelings cause too much pain.
Maybe if she had known after that day, nothing would ever be the same, she would had never have done it. Or maybe that was the point. She didn’t want things to be the same anymore, she wanted an escape. And that day, she found that escape from all emotions, and she also found a reliable friend and companion. That friend was self-mutilation.
It became a ritualistic addiction. Always 3 times. The deeper, the better. Once or twice she carved words into her arm, without even being fully aware she was doing it. Once she saw blood, she was hypnotized, which caused her to cut unnecessarily deep at times. She hid her cuts, always wearing a brown zip-up sweatshirt, simply because she didn’t want to explain her habits to people who would not understand. But in reality, she loved those slices in her skin. They were almost accomplishments, to this sick girl. Moments when she conquered emotions, and won! Or so she thought. Sometimes, when no one was looking, she’d sneak a look at her most recent abrasion. Just seeing it there, red and painful, made her feel relaxed. Hell, as time went on, she began to like the scars too. Each scar represented a battle won, and made her feel victorious and almost proud.
Now, no one said this girl was completely sane. But can you blame her? She had been diagnosed with depression by age 12, and was tired of FEELING all the time. Feeling is rather draining, and she had nothing left to give. She was ultimately cutting to keep herself from giving up entirely. She was cutting to feel less, because the more she felt, the more she wanted to end it.
Every cut and scar was a battle for her life.
Soon enough, she was cutting every time she felt something she didn’t want to feel. If she was ridiculed, or embarrassed. Slice Slice Slice. If she was lonely or hurt. Slice Slice Slice. Anxious. Guilty. Depressed. Angry. Annoyed. Slice Slice Slice. She hid razors in her room, and even kept one in her backpack in case she needed a “fix” during school. She was only desperate enough to use it in school once. She was smart, and knew it was more of a private affair…she learned to avoid the mess of blood stains on her clothes. She didn’t need a reason for anyone to question her, and a blood stain was a very hard to hide. Band-aids were a must, infection not an option. Scabs always picked at, to make the cut bleed warm red once again. It was her only comfort in a cold world. The most warmth she had felt in years is after bringing the razor blade to her thin white arm. The blood…oh the magnificent blood…it rushed down her arm in warm streams. And she often let it drip onto a towel, until she was able to snap out of her endorphin induced coma. She was hooked.
She still couldn’t connect with the world around her, but she had given up trying. While other kids her age were discovering the amazing high they got from smoking weed, and how exhilarating it was to steal their Daddy’s beer, she was hiding in her room with a razor blade to her arm. Her peers were finding new means of mental and physical addiction, but she was already a full blown addict. She could barely go a day without it, and there was never a moment where she could shut her eyes without seeing skin being torn apart by a sharp razor. Instead of a small plastic baggy of weed, she was hiding razors and band aids in her purse. She was not a normal teenager. But who really noticed? She stayed out of trouble, got good grades, and kept her bleeding arms covered by baggy sweatshirts. She was invisible. Unnoticed. Which I guess is why no one realized she was slipping further and further into the deep end. It would only be a matter of weeks before she drowned.
One thing that led her to self-mutilation was a need for some kid of control in her life. By cutting, she could control how she felt, if she even wanted to feel at all, which most times she didn’t. However, as her habit evolved into an addiction, her control seemed to disappear. Soon, she was cutting daily, sometimes with no specific reason or emotion. She could be in a perfectly fine mood, but she wouldn’t feel complete until she put three slashes in her arm. She was consumed. She’d plan her life around her addiction. Finding specific moments to be alone in her room...planning appropriate ways to hide her wounds…developing detailed excuses for why there were millions of tiny cuts on her arm, in case some inquisitive soul caught a glimpse. A cat scratched me. A lot. You have a cat? Uhh…no…my neighbor’s cat. Yea. She’s an angry son of a bitch.
She felt herself falling, but every time she reached out, she only grabbed air. She felt herself screaming for help, but her vocal chords wouldn’t make the sound. Still, no one noticed. She slipped deeper. Depression hit full force. Getting out of bed every morning seemed pointless when there was nothing to live for except self-mutilation. She discovered she was no longer cutting to sustain life, because she found herself holding the blade to her wrist on more than one occasion, pleading for the courage to do it. End it all. The suffering. The agony. The loneliness. All of it, gone, with one deep slice on each wrist.
Monday, August 9, 2010
Retail
Them,
With their scrunched-up red faces,
Angry, always angry.
Throwing coupons on the counter
Like a grenade, blowing up
In their own spiteful faces.
Sorry sir, this can’t be used on sale items.
Thunder booms with these words,
Eyes sharp as daggers.
This item isn’t on sale,
It didn’t say so on the tag,
This is false advertisement,
They huff and puff, and
Turn purpley-blue
As they spit on my face
I want to see a manager.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
How are you today?
Good, how are you?
I can smell the lie,
Or perhaps it’s the way
Their face muscles are set
In a permanent frown that
I know they are truly miserable.
I’m just great.
I lie in turn through clenched teeth
Set permanently in a false, yet convincingly
Agonizing smile
Which I’ve been wearing for hours
Despite my boredom/anger/annoyance.
No one can tell, or cares to notice
How horribly my cheeks sting.
Fake.
They
Complain whenever possible,
Yell if given the opportunity,
Demanding discounts, lower prices, special treatment.
I want to see a manger!
With immense emotional strength,
I hold back how I really feel…
(You fucking bitch just pay the set price
Like a normal fucking human being
And get the fuck away from me.)
All this rage for a meager weeks pay.
Welcome to hell,
Full of ignorant idiots and assholes.
Welcome to the world of
Retail.
With their scrunched-up red faces,
Angry, always angry.
Throwing coupons on the counter
Like a grenade, blowing up
In their own spiteful faces.
Sorry sir, this can’t be used on sale items.
Thunder booms with these words,
Eyes sharp as daggers.
This item isn’t on sale,
It didn’t say so on the tag,
This is false advertisement,
They huff and puff, and
Turn purpley-blue
As they spit on my face
I want to see a manager.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
How are you today?
Good, how are you?
I can smell the lie,
Or perhaps it’s the way
Their face muscles are set
In a permanent frown that
I know they are truly miserable.
I’m just great.
I lie in turn through clenched teeth
Set permanently in a false, yet convincingly
Agonizing smile
Which I’ve been wearing for hours
Despite my boredom/anger/annoyance.
No one can tell, or cares to notice
How horribly my cheeks sting.
Fake.
They
Complain whenever possible,
Yell if given the opportunity,
Demanding discounts, lower prices, special treatment.
I want to see a manger!
With immense emotional strength,
I hold back how I really feel…
(You fucking bitch just pay the set price
Like a normal fucking human being
And get the fuck away from me.)
All this rage for a meager weeks pay.
Welcome to hell,
Full of ignorant idiots and assholes.
Welcome to the world of
Retail.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
"You" by Amy Lee
Today is me and the love of my life's one year anniversary...but since he's miles upon miles away from me right now instead of going out on a cutesy date and celebrating...i'm at home listening to this song and crying my eyes out...i miss him and this song reminds me of him.
Happy One Year. <3 Many more to come.
The words have been drained from this pencil
Sweet words that I want to give you
And I can't sleep
I need to tell you
Goodnight
When we're together, I feel perfect
When I'm pulled away from you, I fall apart
All you say is sacred to me
Your eyes are so blue
I can't look away
As we lay in the stillness
You whisper to me
Marry me
Promise you'll stay with me
Oh you don't have to ask me
You know you're all that I live for
You know I'd die just to hold you
Stay with you
Somehow I'll show you
That you are my night sky
I've always been right behind you
Now I'll always be right beside you
So many nights I cried myself to sleep
Now that you love me, I love myself
I never thought I would say this
I never thought there'd be
You
Happy One Year. <3 Many more to come.
The words have been drained from this pencil
Sweet words that I want to give you
And I can't sleep
I need to tell you
Goodnight
When we're together, I feel perfect
When I'm pulled away from you, I fall apart
All you say is sacred to me
Your eyes are so blue
I can't look away
As we lay in the stillness
You whisper to me
Marry me
Promise you'll stay with me
Oh you don't have to ask me
You know you're all that I live for
You know I'd die just to hold you
Stay with you
Somehow I'll show you
That you are my night sky
I've always been right behind you
Now I'll always be right beside you
So many nights I cried myself to sleep
Now that you love me, I love myself
I never thought I would say this
I never thought there'd be
You
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