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.