Selfharm Poems

Destruction is a form of creation

Some say destruction is a form of creation.
But what did I create while destroying my body?
What was created while I was chipping away at my skin, slice by slice?

It's not until you step back and stop the destruction
that you realize you created resilience.

Even though the destructive thoughts
souround your essence in a thick fog of darkness,
hellbent

Body Language

Your body remembers it all.
	whether you do or don’t.

Your body remembers the pain you felt.
	even when you can’t recall.

Your body will trigger the flashbacks.
	and you’ll take them as dreams.

Your body will remind you of the setbacks.
	but you will ignore it.

Your body will shut down parts of you,
	to keep you alive.

Your body will speak to you,
	in

On The Shelf

Blood falling
Down 
Down
Down

Onto the little glass shard 
    of my dads broken 
    shot glass 
I don’t know
    why I do it.
I never have real answer
    when people ask..

“To forget”
“To punish”
“To feel better..”

Those are the most common answers..
But I had a reason that

On The Shelf, pt 2

“You’re welcome.”

The words ring through my head.
The words I knew were soon to come.
My eyes fill with dread.

I knew he would see through my lies.
I knew that he would talk to my father.
After countless cries,
	I seemed to not be bothered.

Nothing can stop me.
The sting makes me feel alive,
	It brings me back to reality.

I’ll talk to

The Girl I Used To Be

I look down now
And I can just barely see
The thin, pale white lines
From the girl I used to be

The girl who’s not so far gone
Not as dead as you think
But instead of watching skin bleed
She now just puts it in ink

As the clock ticked faster
The calendar pages flipped
More and more time passed
And the scars started

Dibujando Estrellas

Dibujo estrellas

En mi piel como en el papel.

Para el alma vieja y dulce,

Eso no fue más allá del verano de quinto grado.

Para el falso hijo de gran espíritu,

Eso me destruyó para su propio disfrute,

Cuando ellos eran realmente los que estaban siendo

Destruido detrás de las puertas.

No dibujo un círculo ni un cuadrado

Dibujo estrellas.

The Incident

It’s deathly cold. 
 The walls are blank 
  The air is so thick that you could take a 
   blade to it as you would a cake and serve it 
   to people at a birthday.

But of course, I have no birthday.
 I don’t know how I was born,

The Voice In My Head

A ringing in my ears it is all that I can hear
I see the sharpener looking at me 
It beckons to follow for it is just like me 
"Come here" it says but I will shake my head
"I will not, I can not" I scream but the voice in my head gets louder and louder
Each

Trapped

Are the feelings meant to subside now you have gone?
What if I still lay petrified in my bed?
Is it supposed to get easier as time goes on?
Cos I still carve your initials in lines of red

I don't want to feel you anymore.
As I hear you creep.
I want to be done fighting this war,
That I fight

Sweet Sorrow

It was one of those nights,
Nights where I look at my blood stained blades
And observe the art of life that I've sculpted on my body.
As i look into the mirror 
I think of how beautiful all of this is -
The pain, the scars, the dripping scarlet on my arms.
Each mark is a part of my

The Art of Being Blind

She never got spoon-fed and started licking off the knives
But knives cut her tongue
Her home is in the white spaces but not the words
You claim to know the flower, but do you know its pollen grains?
"You are fit so get over it", they said
"Don't be a drama queen", they said
But are they aware of her

Pain

Slit, slit slit, 
easy flick of the wrist,
Seep down deep
where metal and skin meet
In my dreams
it's never what it seems
"Get over it, 
quit throwing a fit",
they say confused
never knowing what it's like to be used
Pick, pick pick
at the emotions 'til they're slick
with sick devotions
Fight, fight, fight
in the middle of the night
Sweat pouring down my face
My

Proof

i like seeing the blood
When i cut my leg,
i like to see the
Red flowing out of me.
It proves that i am real
That i am alive
That i am here.
That's why i like to cut
It's not just for control.
Its proof that i am human

Pools of Paint

It wraps around me like a blanket
The only difference is it makes me colder
Correction, it's the cold one
I grab my canvas and paintbrushes
I slowly start to make strokes onto the canvas
One stroke
Two strokes
Five strokes
Ten strokes
Twenty strokes
With each stroke, I push a little bit harder
The embrace slowly fades 
I keep painting as the paint pools into

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