Self Injury Quotes

How will you know if I am hurting if you can't see my pain? To wear it on my body tells what words cannot explain.

I can't stop thinking about cutting myself up. Visual bruises can be covered with makeup. But down to the core I'm all bruises.

Tell me that you don't take that blade and drag it across your skin and pray for the courage to press down?

A decade of cutting away dead flesh, cauterizing old scars ripped open over and over and it's still not enough.

The drops of blood are substitute for the tears I cannot cry.

Have you ever had that feeling? That itch just below the skin that only a razor blade can scratch?

Have you ever had the need to slit your wrists? To let all feelings of guilt and depression bleed out and then sew yourself up again to be happy?

When everything feels like the movies, you bleed just to know you're alive.

I am forever staring at the tender blue veins along the inside of my wrist. Tiny and fragile twigs trapped under ice.

I wrote a little poem. A poem with a twist. I wrote it with a razor blade. Wrote it on my wrist.

Self-Destruction feeds on Self-Hatred.

Such beautiful dignity is self-abuse.

Pink ribbon scars that never forget. Tried to cleanse myself from all these regrets.

I'm a little bit of loneliness. A little bit of disregard. A handful of complaints but I can't help the fact that everyone can see these scars.

We couldn't imagine the emptiness of a creature that took a razor to her wrists and opened her veins. The emptiness and the calm.

Mad About Red

My insides are screaming at me from a deeper place. With a more primal need than the rest. My demon. My beautiful demons of pain. A pain so rough, a pain so tough, that I cannot say anything at the end of this love affair with the blade except, "I am alive." Dripping, dropping, sploshing, splashing little pools of red. That seep from my veins at night. My very own lifeblood. Collecting like fog upon the floor. My own little ocean of sanity. Oh, but I cannot have my little pools of sanity. Not anymore. Wicked health has supposedly sunk deeply into my bones and "cured me" of my sinful ways. My madness. My malice. My anger. My past. The pills didn't fill me up to make me well. The doctor couldn't dissect my thoughts good enough to tell me what was wrong. My eating disorder couldn't make me beautiful. My addictions couldn't cure me. But this addiction - oh it's so sweet. When it begins to burn so beautifully at the core of my brain. At the base, eating my stem alive, infecting me with it's potent venom. Like a spider bite from a brown recluse. Infection is sure to follow and then the putrefaction and mushiness of dying flesh. My sanity - dying more and more and more. But God it's so beautiful. Purple sky. Cotton dreams. Lost. Oh so lost. Like a hit from a candy colored cocktail of pills. Drowning me in it's silky smooth grasp. Just one cut. One deeply placed slice. I just need one. But then again, maybe two....hell let's make it a hundred! Cut and saw away my arms and legs and soul. Just carve it out because I don't need it anymore. Bleed from me you ugly wasteland of things I find despicable. I hate you. I hate you more than I hate myself. But wait - you are myself. Ha ha! Damn hormones have made me a little cuckoo tonight. PMS - such a bitch! Hahahaha!!!

Madness and Methodist

Perched upon your ebony throne,
Drowning out the great alone,
That bled itself into your brain,
Reminding you that you're insane,
Dripped from lips and eyes and tongues,
That made you realize you'd become undone,
Within a hell of white-hot pain,
That burned you ugly and never the same,
The little girl inside your mind,
That smiles on the outside but cries all the time,
Finally spliced the last red nerve of sane,
Sucked it pale like a candy cane,
And splintered again into bits on the floor,
Marbles rolling away to be found nevermore,
Until the little man in a white cap and gown,
Drug you away to the place in town,
Where you get your own room with pillows for walls,
And you can run screaming down through the halls,
Until they get tired of your babbling mouth,
Give you some drugs to put you right out,
Isn't it fun here in Methodist land?
Where we can run screaming like children again,
And it's summertime forever here in our minds,
Where the darkness never creeps and sorrow never binds,
Who am I kidding this place is absurd!
Needles prick and white lights burn,
Doctors and demons wake you up in the dark,
Or the schizo next door screaming like a lark,
Your neighbor will rape you and therapist tell you to die,
From suicide you fool, go back out again and this time...really try!!
Ah yes it's so lovely here in this place,
With the crazies and weirdos you'll feel perfectly in place,
So come on down to the Methodist hotel,
And awaken to find yourself really in hell