My enemy is...myself. Why? because at 8 i look in the mirror and smile, fascinated at my own face but now i look and see myself with hate.
I see my mind as the threat, the voice in my head was lurking, and it WASN'T kind.
I see my scars as a prison, people say to draw stars but all i see are metal bars burned in my arms.
I see my identity as an ugly mask, having to hide as if it was a normal task.
I see my future like a curse, knowing it will get worse. all i want is to reverse.
i see people as a fear, feeling like i'm being threatened with a spear every time they are near.
But i see the child i used to be, standing right in front of me, asking me "can you hear me?", but i block it out, as i begin to walk.
i done it again after months of resisting it
a tear fell as i picked it up, knowing i would regret it the next morning
i held the pin as my trembling hands tried to work the lighter
i closed my eyes
as i held the hot metal against my skin
it felt like a relief
distracting me
from the thoughts i try so hard to get away from
the next morning i wake and panic as my mum walks in the door, rushing to cover my arm that still stings from the night before
i look down at what i’ve done to myself and instantly regret it
the following night i’ll pick it up and do it again,
knowing it’s bad and not a good way to cope i watch as my skin turns red as my eyes fill with tears and the pain goes through my body
its weird though
because most people would scream at that pain but to me it makes me feel relieved
and maybe on day i’ll find a way to stop
A fleeting satisfaction
A silent pain
You use this to cope,
Can you call yourself sane?
An effort to relieve,
A try to be okay;
A silent cry for help,
Yet you hide it meticulously.
Other times you deserve it,
Or at least you think you do.
A punishment for being you,
A pathetic comfort.
A tiny metal,
Slits of satisfaction;
Bleeding and breathtaking,
Deadly yet fulfilling.
Having a run, but not in hand,
Excited for I know my prize is grand.
It’s time to draw, but not from the deck,
I drew too much, now my figure’s a wreck.
Making lines, my soul further in debts,
I add more lines, I like placing bets.
Instead of pounds, I use my own,
A little more cautious, now down to the bones.
A little on edge, for my cover mustn’t be blown,
Acting as stoic as possible,
Expression like stone.
I try and do my best bluff,
But maybe I didn’t try hard enough.
I might tap-out, for luck’s not in my favour,
My turn is overdue, I should’ve signed that waiver.
Knowing if I lose, the cost will be major,
But I’m not too scared,
For my life is something I often wager.
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 on destroying everything in its path...
Destruction is a form of creation.
And every time you fight your way out of that fog,
you're destroying the clawing urges bit by bit—
and creating a resilience against the very destruction
you thought would be your end.
Destruction is a form of creation.
So create a victorious mind.
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 a language only you can learn to understand.
Your body’s language,
is the hardest language known to man.
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 night..
Everything was failing..
My friends
My relationship
My grades
My room was a mess
I kept getting grounded..
That night my uncle was in town
He was my dads friend but him and
my dad were so close they
were blood brothers.
I don’t remember how he found out..
If I told him
If he saw the glass shard
from the shot glass
I can’t remember.
All I remember is him taking it from my hands
And telling me that I was gonna be ok..
“This will go on my shelf”
“It has my blood on it.”
“That’s alright sugar”
“Why on your shelf?”
“To show how far you’ve come from this moment”
“Don’t tell my parents..”
“I won’t.”
That was the first time
I’ve seen him cry.
And when he isn’t here on earth anymore..
Well..
I don’t want to think about that.
To my Uncle Robert.
The crazy old man
I’m happy to have.
“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 him,
but it won’t make it better.
The light in my eyes is dim,
I want to beat my head with a hammer.
But alas the night is here,
and I can sit in my room.
It’s so very clear,
it’s so very gloom..
I’ll sit in my ocean of tears,
My silence wonder.
I only want to hear the cheers,
when I’m 6ft under.
“You’re welcome.”
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.
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,
or where I was born.
The prophecy told my family that I would arrive.
It told them I would raise chaos and destruction on them.
Of course no one believed it until..well..
“The incident”
After that they forced me to be isolated from the world.
I retreat back everyday into attic I once called my mind.
This isolation..
It’s solemn.
I fell weak, I cannot stand.
I’m pale.
They tell me I am sick.
I am not sick.
I am cold.
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 second it roars and I tell it I will not listen anymore
But I know this is a lie because I will never get to tell that voice goodbye
The voice is there it tells me it will be okay when I can't even imagine seeing another day
The pain in the body quiets the pain in the mind they say but I just want to know when I will be okay
How can I love myself when I'd trade this dumb body with anyone else
So once again I will listen to the thoughts of my own
I will pick up the sharpener
I will take out the blade
And I will do this for as long as I need because inside that loud voice will always
be the one to lead
That voice in my head, it wants me dead
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 in my sleep.
I’d let the police file their case,
But in my mind you stand by the door
Trapped in a room face to face,
While I cry on the floor
Another year passes by,
It always comes round quick.
Must force my tears to dry,
In between feeling sick
Leaving your debris
And left your mark,
You pushed yourself into me,
wish you’d done it in the dark.
That way I would have seen less
The flashbacks wouldn't burn so bright.
But these feelings I will suppress,
As I fight through each night.
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 identity:
If not for this, what defines me?
These are not scars, but the records of my past and present.
But I'm afraid these slits on my limbs
Only cause censure
Rather than acknowledgement
Of the art that I've created.
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 efforts and struggling are nothing but waste
Hiding in these congested jars
are memories that are left in open scars
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
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