Tuesday, November 23, 2010


I am a ragdoll.

My knees are sewn together carelessly,
My heart is threaded together inside but just barely,
On my stuffed face are little button eyes,
They should have embroidered on the million tears I cannot cry,
But don't think they are not there,
Behind my happy, fake stare,
My throat has stitching upon it and I fear,
If I had been real it would be a tattoo that says "Cut here,"
Just because I smile all of the time,
Doesn't mean I don't scream perpetually inside my mind,
At night when everyone is asleep in bed,
I take the scissors to the first tiny thread,
That holds my satin heart inside my chest,
Clip, snip, rip...and I play with it, it's the part of me I like best,
Sometimes I pretend that it really beats,
Pretend it's really warm with heat,
But I know in my head that it's always been cold,
From the moment I was made to the moment I was sold,
*This poem is not finished

Monday, November 22, 2010


I stand patient and silent in the sedative line,
I am dumbed down to your preferred level of stupidity
and controllability, until there is so little left of me that I
am amazed at how I am even functioning.

Next! the head nurse calls out, I step forward slowly, swallow
my pills and drink the water, sticking out my tongue to show
her what a good girl I am, she lets me leave while the pills drop
into the bile in my stomach to dissolve. Dissolve like my hopes and dreams.

Madness: it creeps into the brain like a slow-working posion,
drips through your veins like morphine in an IV. It wraps itself
around your brain and hooks itself behind your bones. Suffocating
you from the inside out. It slowly discintegrates your self-confidence
and your sanity while telling you that you need it because it's "all
you've ever really known." Which is a crock of shit.

Nevertheless, there you are, swallowing pills from a bottle,
buying razors to slit your wrist with, pulling the trigger, and
then there you are, in the fucking psych ward of some
delapidated hospital from hell. People telling you to
do your ADL's and circles from schema therapy. You are
nothing more than a zombie at that point, because your
suicide attempt failed. You failed at life and now you're failing
at off-ing yourself. Can you do nothing right?

So, with yet another hit to your self-confidence, you stand in the
sedative line, swallow your pills, and lay on the cold, starchy matress,
and try your best to get back to a normal sort of life, hoping and
dreaming and, God forbid, working a job. All the while wondering about
the next time you'll swallow the pills or slit the veins of your wrist.
Because that's the destiny of the insane. Once you've given up on
life the first time, you find it easier to give up than to go on. It
just seems too easy to swallow the pills, hoping that this time, it'll be the
last time.

There's Blood

There's blood on the bedsheets,
There's blood on my hands and feet,
I wipe them carefully down my white dress,
& I must confess,
I am beautiful...
There's blood down the sink,
I think,
I may have cut to deeply this time,
Time....is beginning to rewind,
I am so cold...
There's blood on the floor,
I turn my wrist and spill a bit more,
Now it's in my hair,
But what do I care?
I am drenched...
There's blood on the walls,
Down through the halls,
I rip at my flesh, down to the bone,
Nobody's home,
I am repentant for my sins...
What comes after this?
Is it bliss?
Or an affair of pergutory?
Perhaps just blackness for the likes of me,
I am setting myself free...
There's blood in the water in the tub,
So much for forgiveness and love,
They were both just a crock,
I never had a shot,
I am a failure it seems...
There's blood everywhere,
When they find me in here,
Cold and white from the loss,
I showed them who's boss,
I am gone and finally...
I am happy.