shiver

inescapable fear, growing.
all you can do is cry,
hope someone knows your tears.
hiding, silently recording the
self-inflicted pain - rushing water,
running blood.
everyone is so afraid of this story -
they see nothing but the scars, nothing
but the angry red gashes,
noncommittal nods.
gasps and displeasure.
but if i don't speak
when i'm well-bladed,
i seem almost
normal.

today is lost, clouded

like many days
a clouded slate of polished rocks
a stupor induced by mania
lay for hours and stared at the ceiling
wishing it was you
and could you come back and hold me into myself
and breathe dear.
and now that i've outed myself,
put the defining limit upon my feelings,
composed the ultimate hypocrisy inches from your face
you still have no idea
and i'm still making love to razor blades
and mating the pages, stuck and rusted.

instead of crying

you weep,
and blood trails down your arm.

upsidedown

slicing fingers
stained and torn,
sharpened upon my bitter skin.
...and you have no idea.
i keep my pain well,
biting off my cries carefully
with every intention of stifling inside
the hurt the blade played
no part in.
it's always the wrong anguish
they respond to,
but how do you tell someone that?

collaging ourselves

the point being
to break and reassemble,
cut and stitch
until we can no longer
feel the pain.

starting to end

i was conflicted
and he didn't realize,
walking away
turning over his shoulder
with a glare
before he'd go.
i stayed still last night,
curled into fetal balls
felt good, i said,
staring off at nothing,
listening to conversations
i was supposed to be in.
weighted down with
the consciousness of her,
splayed across my body,
while looking in his eyes
i said i love you
and he just walked away.

i remembered too

she knows
her fingers moving sure
pleating the folds of hair
arranging and perfecting
she thinks she remembers
times of life, blood
yet to be spilled, waiting
pooled green underneath skin
instead of crimson rivulets
your arms remember when
you were unscarred
and i paid no attention
she runs taking with her
slippery pieces gushing they're
falling out of your hands
and now i'm left
lusting after the impossible
or is it the purest of intentions,
a kiss gently placed
the way i look at you.
do you understand?

sleep is for the weak

i live
for creaking floorboards,
the shallow sleep breath
of another beside me.
the allure of time
when time stops
its passage, the why
and hows in question.
all the answers, inspiration
comes,
in the early morning hours
when all sane people
sleep.

where we are

if we danced, holding hands
to music in our heads,
bodies held close
in a rythmic sway,
would you feel it too?
or would you remain oblivious
to the the undertones,
the currents that take us?

teetering over the edge of insanity

hold me and make me forget.
kiss me until
you kill me.
i will never complain
that you didn't love me.
your only sin was
loving me too much,
and that my dear,
is simply unforgiveable.

control, part 2

i can't believe your eyes,
words bleeding out the sides,
your blood telling
the stories, seldom heard.
i would devour her knowledge,
she glances back at me
and turns.
the light tonight
has fallen, we stand
in twilight
remembering days gone by
before our bleeding
was known, before
he inspected my wrists,
daily.

i loved you...

and all i wanted was a small piece no
a sliver of your life a small razor cut
piece

scratch the surface

will you come to see me grieving,
chiseled
into the grey marble exterior?
call me sick
but i've had dreams,
ingesting myself, another's blood
as if it were natural
unaware of pain and
only drowning enough to find
that i could no longer
be satisfied
with a blade.
there are sharper things
to slit oneself with.

opaque

stuck to the ceiling tonight.
i'd shoot myself to create
the masterpiece, emulsified in
careful preparation...
mummification
so you can see this exact change
spilling from my hands hitting
the floor, gun slid down.

reasons

i don't know, myself.
i felt the need.
a mental anorexia i
cannot control,
nothing but myself, my blade.

cut again.
guilty.
habit.
cut again.
i love you.
i hate myself.

control

i said nothing.
wore nothing to upset you,
smiled,
when you asked me to.
but what is good enough for you?

i am not your perfect model;
i wish i was.
sculpted and ragged in the wind,
dainty rivulets of blood.
no real model
owns x-actos
and scars.

for whisper

it's okay. i tried it on but it didn't seem to fit. (suicide)

sometimes i astound myself

walking towards me, you turned
and faced the skyline.
i cannot comprehend
the stars bending to meet me,
scraping themselves low, yet
in the darkness creeping before me,
i noticed your hair,
gleaming bright.
it struck the moonlight
and send shards
scattering into my heart.

DIE

i want you to.
nothing could be sweeter than
your face on the ground,
your blood on my shoes,
splattered upon my face
and running from my nails.
hate is not word enough
to hold this rage.
i can spill it out
in simple phrases
filled with malice and scorn:
listen carefully.

she asks me not to*

someone make me laugh,
quiver with suppressed hilarity.
i spend too much time
staring at a blade
and my impenetrable skin.









*actually made its way into my B.A. thesis. and a piece of artwork. i don't know why i like this one so much, there isn't much of a rational reason; more like memory association.