rolling into ramble
my mind is screaming through my skin
release, blood, let me go.
bared teeth forced smile
rigor mortis
but I am breathing.
locked limbs
dead pan.
I am shivering.
pain – I need pain
life has never offered me anything to gain
only loss.
Control. 7 letters. 7, lucky number.
scratch off a lotto ticket,
pretend it wasn’t the same waste of space,
time & money as I have always been
before I toss it to the floorboard.
let me go – I whisper.
bad luck – no
the urges scream.
hurt,
hurt,
hurt.
for that is your worth.
Tired. Tired of writing my name on a page, a name I don't want, a name they call me to taunt.
I'm tired, tired of pretending, I want to cry and scream but no one listens to my pleas, I want to hit and yell but they just talk, like I'm a joke to tell.
I'm tired, tired of hiding, faking a laugh so they don't see me crying, tired of being lied to, like telling the truth would curse you.
I'm tired, tired of this pain, The razor cutting my skin as I drift away, blood seeping from my skin, my head starting to spin.
I'm tired, physically, mentally and emotionally. Tired of your games, the ones I'm forced to play, until you get bored and I'm left in one of your hoards.
I'm tired, tired of life, wishing to die but in the end...I just cry, cut and write goodbyes that won't happen until another lifetime.
I'm tired, tired of crying, lying on my unmade bed, hoping these tears are the last ones to be shed.
These demons in my head urging me to stop my breath, to hurry up to my death. I'm tired, so please let me rest.
we teeter on the balance
of the scales of life
our soul saccades between polarity
right from wrong
left from right
observing an examination
of nature versus divinity
the weight of intention burdens the act
absence of regret is the conception of arrogance
obsession with opportunity is request for heedlessness
I slept like prey folded inside your arms,
Half-praying for mercy, half-bracing for harm.
I mistook your stillness for safety’s breath,
but even your care hides merciless depth.
It was only when I learned to let you go,
that inner peace began to grow.
I’ve always found opening up too hard
it’s much easier to clutch a shard
a shard of glass between my fists
that opens the veins within my wrists
releasing blood is easier than words
it doesn’t get stuck, just sings like birds
flowing out, a river of red
“please just stop for me” they said
“I promise I’ll try” but it happens again
the simplest way to ease my pain
I feel so numb, without a soul
all I want is to again feel whole
a deadly instrument, shiny and sharp
it soothes my hurt like a beautiful harp
lulls me into a false sense of calm
the monster within me, called self-harm
When you're a kid,
lines seem mundane.
They're on paper, patterns and books.
getting older I've become familiar
familiar with lines on red.
Older white lines,
newer red lines
and the lines of "I'm sorry".
I feel like my lines are different.
They make me feel peace.
However every time i draw a new one,
I've let someone down.
I know i should stop drawing,
put down my silver pencil.
But when lines are all that quiets my mind,
How can I?
Self-harm is my vice,
A vice that is not nice,
Nice is not the something,
The something to change the nothing,
Nothing is what I normally felt,
I felt trapped screaming for help,
Help that would never come,
Come watch as I feel like my life is done,
Done with these scars,
Scars that cover my arms,
Arms that bleed with the poke of a blade,
The blade in which my hand found a way,
A way to not feel numb,
Numb is the feeling coming undone,
Undone day by day,
The days are slowly fading away,
Away from me and what’s around,
Around me, my grave in the ground,
The ground soft yet thick,
Thick is how I describe the rope,
The rope that is tied around my throat,
My throat is slowly closing,
Closing as I notice something,
Something in the distance,
The distance not so far,
So far yet so close,
Close to me,
Me and death,
Death greets me like an old friend,
Friends are who we are,
Are you sure that death isn’t far,
Far not so close,
Close to being as dead as a ghost,
I did not lose myself.
I stopped giving myself away.
I did not step back
to disappear
or to abandon you.
I stepped back
to return to the fire
I kept dimming
so you could stay comfortable.
I learned the quiet cost
of making myself smaller—
how easily warmth
becomes ash
when it is always offered away.
This distance
is not rejection.
It is breath.
It is oxygen.
It is flame remembering
how to burn.
And I will not dim again.
None of that was love.
Not the control.
Not the silence.
Not the way you shrank to survive.
None of that was your responsibility.
You were not the fixer.
Not the shield.
Not the explanation for someone else’s damage.
And none of that—
not one bruise on your spirit—
was your fault.
You’re unlearning that now.
Slowly.
Like pulling splinters from memory.
Like teaching your body
that raised voices
are not weather you have to endure.
You are naming the harm.
You are naming the pain.
And the naming
is a kind of rebellion.
You are stepping into a different kind of truth—
one where your mental health matters.
Where your boundaries matter.
Where your safety
is not negotiable.
This is not selfish.
This is survival
turning into self-respect.
This is you
choosing yourself
without apology.
Beetlebum, what you done
Chasing a high on the run
Red spots adorn your skin like stars,
They burn out, arms, toes, and neck
Just from various black tars.
Horse crashes into those below,
There is no carriage, no smooth flow.
Money always runs tight, fear is high
The lungs, liver, and kidneys damaged
No matter, the goal is still to fly
China white, but nothing ceramic
Never inside, is there plastic?
No serotonin, synapses all fried
Stick the needle in, don't whine
Hope you feel the need to hide
it's happening again
the pressure behind my ribs,
like something inside me is clawing for a way out
and my hands don't know where to go.
my brain keeps flashing red
like a warning sign no one else can see.
the room is quiet
my head is loud
and every thought is a shove.
I'm not trying to die
I'm just trying to feel something
that makes sense
for once.
i sit there trembling,
breathing too fast,
eyes burning,
wanting the pain to match the mess in my chest
because the mess feels bigger than me.
i see the red oozing out,
skin tingling weirdly,
every line screaming something
my voice doesn't dare to.
and I hate that I'm here again,
i hate that i don't know what else to do.
i hate that I'm scared
of myself
and for myself
at the same time.
1932 till 1972...Public Health Services put
Black males in a study, that much is true.'
Imperitive was that the course be run up
To death, then autopsy no true medical help to be given under tavel of moon or sun
The incentive for participents.? Free hospital cover, and funerals paid.' In Tuskagee Alabama, was the place it was out-played.' Fast forward to 2020 what real
Difference in advice and care did we observe? After ninety eight years..I"m asking.! What about you.?
Walking by the broken bridge,
Your hand in mine and your eyes shut,
Unsure footsteps lagging behind,
Until I pull you forward with a tug.
That sigh of relief when you cross,
Looking back at what you've traded,
The hand in mine just a bit cold,
But firmly still in place.
"Be brave" I say laughing,
"It's just a little height" indeed.
You huff and stride ahead,
"I'll get there, you'll see" you promise.
"What have you got to lose?
What frightens you so?" I wonder.
"What if I fall?" comes a broken whisper,
"And what if you fly?" your eyes sparkle.
That day, witnessing your unwavering feet,
As you made your way to the bridge,
I felt my heart swell and constrict,
With equal parts pride and loss.
You look back one last time,
At all that you are taking with you and leaving behind.
"She fell" they shrieked in agony,
Choosing to mourn your broken hopes.
You indeed had nothing to lose, love,
"No. She flew" celebrating the wings that set you free.
You saw the world when it was blue,
So I gave up on trying to save you now.
Inspired by song: Listen Before I Go
By: Billie Eilish
It hurts.
It burns.
Like a flame on my thigh.
Growing bigger.
Bigger, bigger.
Blood down my leg.
Pain down my thigh.
It hurts, it hurts, it hurts.
I can’t talk.
My throat is closed.
I can’t trust.
People all talk.
I’m unsure what to do.
I’m unsure how to act.
My mask isn’t working.
I thought it was working.
It seemed so convincing.
But he could tell.
He could see I’m not truly happy.
I’m not sure how to feel.
My happy mask is broken.
I don’t know how to fix it.
I can’t fix it.
I can’t stop the hurt.
The pain, the burn,
The heartache, the flame.
My thigh is stained red.
Forever stained with blood.
I can’t hide it.
Not anymore.
But I have to try.
For them.
I have to try.
Even if it causes my demise.
Meaning arrives
in the absence of violence
The beetle I cup and carry to the window,
its legs tickling my palm,
frantic, alive.
I open my hand.
The bruise on the peach
I do not press.
The breath I take without displacing
more than my small share of air.
No violence in thought:
I do not wish you smaller.
No violence in word:
I speak only doors, not walls.
No violence in air:
even the environment feels my footstep lighten.
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