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as a child i often found myself participating in sadistic activities.

 i felt my sins rotting into my body-
 into my soul as-well my veins.

 it kept my blood pumping throughout my body that i did neglect.


i protested against consuming meals as if they’d make me feel holy again,
sick i was.

the blood that clawed out out my skin begging for relief of this tainted soul.
the thickened red river that poured from my wrists-
 spilled onto pages.


 a paper about the “cleanse”-
 i had in my now “holy” body, 



“sickened” activities made me feel whole again. 

as if the river from the wrists would fix the tears i wept.

 if the bandages on my now healed wrists would fix the bandages on my tainted soul.

 i had once had a lords preacher tell me: “the lord will forgive you for the things you have done to yourself”-

 i did not need the lord forgiveness.

 i had begged for the lords help-
 prayed my tears away for a simple sign. 

i wept my sorrows into letters for their lord for him to kill me painless,





if this was our god i did not want him. 




the lord never watched me as i couldn’t fathom the idea of being normal again.

 i was born like this i suppose-
hungry for the blood spill that would give me relief from my sorrows even if it was for a few divine seconds.

 i sit on my cold floor the same ones i had once bled onto and poured my soul onto.



i write as if my sorrows are not lingering.

 i write like my wrists are not bandaged and wrapped. 


i write like this was a tragic past, like the light switch was flipped on into the dark room of grief but that is not the truth.


i weep onto the pages, my tears and blood based on painful past become the ink from my stories. 


i write as if the ink on pages will rewrite the sorrowful story of my past.


 i know it won’t.


i beg the pages to tell me i’ll be a changed women now. 


they laugh as the ink spills onto the paper. 

i tell myself i’ll write tomorrow instead.
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