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.
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,
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.
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.
Words are enough.
They don't some overdramatized definition of them,
Don't be a fool to explain it to me.
I'd rather die a lonely and cruel death, by my own hands.
Words —
They don't come easy, do they?
The blurry effect on my left iris left me partially blind.
It tears my other eye to see it in the mirror.
Words, they are spat out like fetid, rotting chunder,
Why do they taste so putrid and smell so obnoxious?
When I try to let them out, they escape through my eye,
Leaking and spewing festering dross.
Technicolor yawn mimics the man in the mirror and then
He would call in sick the next day.
As the pus decay in the drought and barren land of my eye,
I was recommended using Ciprofloxacin.
Words —
Words like "I need help" and "why does it hurt so bad?"
I wish I never knew how to speak.
Instead of the infection of my worm-eaten and vile eye,
I desiderate it be my mouth rather.
Words like these are what made me feel how I feel now,
Enervated and debilitated.
Her soul was starved of acceptance
An aching hunger wanting to be fed
Her body weak
Not from the lack of food
But for the lack of love for her skin
Being black meant a life where no matter what she did
She would never win
She couldn't control her race
But she could control her body
She wanted to be invisible
And the only way she could make that happen was to disappear
Her body, her skin, her mind
A place of imprisonment
But she could control how she decorated it
To her that felt like a rebellion
Even if it meant she lost herself
Deep down she knew this wasn't right
But she just didn't want the fight
She was willing to make that sacrifice
With every meal skipped
She got weaker and weaker
Not realising how she was getting closer to death
Mistaking it for freedom
She had got everything she wanted
Just not how she expected
She realised a little too late
How true this statement was
The world wanted her gone
And she had finally given them what they want
She always hated the sight of blood
But now it had become her greatest comfort
She felt her blood was the only one who understood
What it was like to be judged
Both hated on for their colour
Both wanting to be hidden
Both wanting to be invisible
Each cut sent waves of euphoria throughout her body
She wasn't a masochist
She just loved being in control
It was a distraction
From all the racists
Who consistently punished her
For her skin colour
She didn't know if she could deal with it anymore
She didn't want to be here no more
She had always wondered about life after death
What would happen?
Would she finally find peace?
Or would she forever carry the weight of her race for eternity?
All she wanted was to exist
Without being discriminated against
Without someone bullying her for her skin colour
She was tired
Whilst she was stuck in her mind
She hadn't realised
How deep she had cut
She saw how much blood she had lost
She wasn't sad
She was just numb
The last thing she thought of before she succumbed
Was freedom
To be a good father You already have to be a good man But apparently he couldn't be either guess it was just easier For him to be just like his father
Him being a black father Made it harder The stereotypes That followed him around That policed He probably internally agreed He felt it must've been better for him to leave Or Maybe he just doesn't love his kids enough to stay It must've been his generational way
His children understood As best as they could That his father was ed up They just thought he would give them a better childhood
They weren't mad just disappointed They felt neglected Felt unprotected By someone who was supposed to love them They felt stupid They felt empty, like they shouldn't have existed
As they grew up They saw all the other present fathers The pain Of it all began to hit harder They began to wonder If they even mattered
As the years continued on That pain grew stronger Their fathers absence Constantly haunted them Their self hatred grew deeper No amount of therapy made it easier They would always feel inferior
They would never forgive They would never forget
my dear friends,
i am writing to address
a memory of sorts:
a lovely barbecue,
evening, on the beach.
you all brought
ingredients
to pile on my barbecue.
you all brought your onions
your palette knives
your cutting board
and one of you were
cutting onions.
at the beach.
the juices, they pricked
pricked my sockets for droplets.
oh, it was lovely,
the sizzling crackle of veg.
and i took my chair,
i examined the burns.
the sizzles, the pops, how the knife had painted
the onions
onions!
red onions in the sky .
it scorched my eyes
oh! the taste!
and you were all so thrilled
to share your creation
the meal was fantastic
filling for the night, but for days after
i couldn't rid myself of
onions
without cutting them away from my eyes
so i vaguely remember
in a dream like state,
one of you took your palette knife
and scooped them out for me.
i cried and shook for hours in relief!
and, oh! what a time.
and, oh.
onions.
The little beads rise to the surface of her skin.
The skin that seems to have
'gotten scratched by the cat'
One too many times.
But as she goes to erase all evidence of her deflect
She feels it sting.
A sting she knows all too well.
Her blood feeling the tension of the gleaming blade against her skin
The sting comes and goes,
But here comes the hell hot waters,
The little voices in her head screaming for her to yell in pain, in anger,
something to tell people she's hurt
But she just sighs as the
demons come from the shower and cause havoc on her skin
Her fingers graze against her
scars as she is reminded of the the pain, the agony.
But she will sigh, as she know the hell hot water demons,
will soon meet her skin again
I see the lines, I trace the skin,
I swear this time won’t start again.
The pain fades fast, but not for long,
The ache remains, the pull too strong.
I see the lines, I hide them well,
A silent scream, A private hell.
If only I could yell,
Help,
But if I reach, if I let go,
Maybe someone else will know.
Maybe, It's my time to go
I guess we’ll never know…
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