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Best Poems Written by Blaire Hensley

Below are the all-time best Blaire Hensley poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Blaire Hensley Poem

Art of My Undoing

I want to be an artist.
I want to create a piece if be proud of for the rest of my life.
Id peel back the skin, cutting the fat away until it was the perfect size. 
then id mold it - shape it until it was just right.

Pulling muscles like clay, threading through blood vessels and veins like string, digging through the mess of myself and scraping away every inch until i loved what i saw.

every flaw, 
carved out of my body until all the was left was absolute perfection

when im finished, id stitch the skin back over in a beautiful mess, - tight, trembling

and standing in the mirror, ill know -
i made the greatest art piece id ever see

they say, an artist greatest masterpiece is themselves.

Details | Blaire Hensley Poem

anatomy of hate

I take the blade
like a sculptor takes his chisel—
not for art,
but for erasure.

Skin is too quiet.
It wears my face like a mask I never chose.
So I slice,
deep enough to silence it,
to watch it speak in red.

Each cut a sentence.
Each bruise a thought I couldn't hold.
I dig through muscle and memory
trying to find what part of me
deserves forgiveness—
but all I find is rot.

Nails tear at the surface
when the blade dulls.
Teeth, fists, anything
to feel my hatred echo
through blood.

This is not performance.
This is penance.
This is punishment for waking up
in a body I never asked for.

They say:
“Don’t hurt yourself.”
As if it’s hurt.
As if it’s not relief
to open myself
and let the poison breathe.

I mutilate
because I can’t kill
what’s inside.
So I tear down the walls
again
and again
and again.

Not to die—
but to make the pain visible.
To show the world
what it did to me.

To make it real.
To make me real.
If only for a moment
before the blood dries
and the shame returns
wearing my name like a crown.

Details | Blaire Hensley Poem

a quiet end i cannot take

I want to die—
not in screams,
not in blood,
but in a quiet room where no one waits for me.

I think of suicide
like a lullaby I hum alone,
a final note to silence
the noise in my head
that never rests.

But I'm scared.

I'm afraid of the rope,
afraid of the pills,
afraid of the fall—
not just the pain,
but the fact that I might feel it
and still not escape.

I stand at the edge of my mind
every night,
toe hanging over thought,
imagining how it ends—
if it ends.

I am not brave.
Not brave enough to live fully,
not brave enough to die.
Caught somewhere between
a breath and a breakdown.

They say it gets better.
But "better" feels like a foreign word,
a place I've never been
and can't afford the fare to reach.

I want to end this.
Not just the day,
but the constant ache of waking.
And still, I stay.
Because I'm terrified
that nothing waits for me beyond.

Or worse—
something does.

Details | Blaire Hensley Poem

the darkened sky stole my tears

The darkened sky stole my tears,
Each drop lost in twilight's hush—
No echoes left to calm my fears,
No breath to break the silence's crush.

I wandered roads of hollow stone,
Where shadows knew my name,
Each heartbeat felt a thundered moan,
A whisper wrapped in shame.

The stars refused to meet my gaze,
The moon turned from my cries,
Hope flickered low in ashen haze,
A ghost beneath the skies.

Yet even as the night grew deep,
And sorrow wrote its creed,
The world around me did not sleep—
It watched, it hurt, it bleed.

The darkened sky stole my tears,
But not the will to speak.
Even broken, the soul still hears
A voice, however weak.

So if you stand where I once stood,
Where pain the daylight veils—
Know silent hearts still beat for good,
And healing rides the gales.

Details | Blaire Hensley Poem

love, not just sex

it wasnt hunger,
not the kind that burns then fades -
but a softness,
a gravity between us
pulling soul to soul
through skin.

we touched without taking,
moved like water moves -
fluid, inevitable,
shaped only by the need
to hold,
not to own

my hands said "stay",
yours said "im here"
without a word.

when we met -
fully, fiercely,
with nothing held back -
it was not fire,
but light.

not a storm,
but rain that kissed the earth
because it loved it.

in that moment,
we were not two bodies,
we were one truth:
that love,
when its real,
has a rhythm
only the heart
can teach the flesh.

Details | Blaire Hensley Poem

goodbye

i draw the pain upon my skin,
each cut a silent scream unheard,
a bleeding map of battles fought
inside the dark corners of my mind.

the blood flows - red truths i cant say,
whispers of a heart breaking quietly,
fragile threads pulled tight, unraveling -
until all thats left is the weight of wanting to end.

i stand on the edge of myself,
wounded and worn, searching for release,
where the scars speak louder than words,
and the silence become a final breath.

   Goodbye.

Details | Blaire Hensley Poem

red proof

You didn't love me.
Not even a little.
Not in the quiet way I needed—
not in the way that could’ve saved me.

So I carved it into skin
because I needed someone
to see something real.
And pain?
Pain shows up.
Pain answers.

Lines on my arms like tally marks—
not counting days,
but the moments I survived
wanting to disappear.

The blade was a lover that never left.
It kissed without shame,
whispered, “You are here. You are real.”

They say: “Don’t.”
I say: “Then help me feel something else.”
Because your silence
was louder than any scream I ever made
into my own flesh.

And maybe the blood
was just a truth I could finally hold,
when your love was nothing
but a ghost that wouldn’t
haunt me back.

Details | Blaire Hensley Poem

hanahakis crimson garden

Inside me, a tempest rages -
flowers bursting through cracked ribs,
their thorns piercing deeper with every silent scream.

I choke on words unsaid,
swallowing the poison of quiet love,
letting petals tear through my lungs
until breath becomes a battleground.

you are the sun i cant reach -
bright and distant,
while i bleed this garden of pain,
thorns digging in like broken promises.

each cough drags blood and heartbreak,
a cruel harvest of longing and loss.
and i am suffocating beneath
the weight of flowers i can never give away.

im drowning in this silent scream, 
a garden grown from sorrow,
where hope withers,
and love kills.

Details | Blaire Hensley Poem

stuck in his time

i was a clock.
not flashy, not loud.
just mine.
time passed the way i let it—
slow, careful, soft.
each tick a heartbeat.
each hour a boundary.

then he came.
not with kindness,
not with care—
with want.
with hands like force,
like he thought time would bend
if he pushed hard enough.

he didn’t ask what hour i was in.
he didn’t care that i wasn’t ready.
he took his time—
he took mine.

and when he finished
he left me behind like a broken thing.
not even worth a glance.
just tick…
tick…
nothing.

the clock stopped.
right there.
right then.

and now every day
feels like i’m stuck
in the second after it happened.
hands frozen.
air heavy.
time still moving for everyone but me.

they tell me to move on.
to rewind, reset,
act like the glass wasn’t shattered,
like i’m not still finding shards in my chest
every time i try to love myself again.

they ask why i didn’t scream.
why i didn’t run.
why i let him wind me down.

but clocks don’t fight.
clocks just keep time
until someone breaks them.

and i was broken.
not because i wanted to be.
because someone looked at my stillness
and thought silence meant yes.

i didn’t stop ticking on my own.
he stopped me.
he reached inside and snapped something sacred
and now the gears grind wrong,
and the hands stutter,
and sometimes i can’t tell
if it’s today or then—
if he’s still here
or just inside me.

i’m trying to fix it.
i am.
but no one tells you
how hard it is
to restart a clock
when the person who broke it
walks away like time never mattered.