I scrub and claw,
and the water runs clear
but the blood on my hands
is red as ever,
it beats and pulses
like the blood in my veins.
Turning my back,
I'm giving up.
I'm returning to my haven,
not so safe,
not so sound,
where I scream.
The Chill of MeltingThe loving hands which shaped these feathers
bade me fight the fire and forsake the water,
find the space between.
Then those hands released me from our cage,
and from my mind all was gone.
The empty openness of the sky
was the same as that of my mind.
Curiosity flew to me on her silver wings
and, landing on my back,
bade me soar.
She flew into my throat and sat in my heart
warming her iced hands at the fire of my freedom.
She bade the flames burn brighter,
for her hair was tangled with frost,
her eyes had become crystals of ice,
and snow now flowed through her veins.
She sang to me a song of winter,
and in the spring sun
I sprung from the cold shadows.
Her breaths of mist filled my wings
and chilled my blistering skin.
Her icy tears streamed from my ember eyes.
She gathered the cinders in her icicle fingers
and cooled my burning fear.
But as she sang her song,
the fire bade me fall.
Curiosity’s laughter screamed in my ears.
As the ashes swirled like snow,
I floated past the soft
LabyrinthDarkness will, in this maze,
scream in the ears of wanderers.
Darkness will, in this labyrinth,
crawl into the hearts of men.
Darkness will, in this endless hall,
silence escaping words and drag the rain from eyes of children.
Darkness will, in this prison,
ColorlessFeel openness around you,
lending its strength to the worn wood
bending beneath you
and holding you up.
The trees clutch you close to their chests,
comforting your unseeing eyes.
In the quiet around you
blooms the silent flower,
your own breathing the only thing to sound
alongside the avian lullabies
singing the sun to cool slumber.
Swallow the birds’ calls,
keeping the chill of the night from your skin.
Hear the trees’ heartbeat,
beating a rhythm for your own.
Breathe in the silence
pooling about you.
Because when you’re alone
your empty eyes can see.
Red LeatherMy eyes kissed the tough wagon,
“I’m afraid I’ve surprised you” said the wheel,
as red leather rocks took the shock and flew.
They flew twice as high as the wall,
flew past the stars and grew into the moon,
as the clouds sang, loud proud and true.
The frog sat inside the mailbox,
as someone pushed a pile of post,
the wide face swung forward and bit.
Paper bruised and cut its poor throat,
so our little frog melted to soft mud
and snow fell on the hot tarmac.
Wavering heat feasts on bones,
bones disowned by the scrap dogs.
Children mutter proverbs in silence,
their eyes lamps of sugar and spice
and as the gasping earth drinks its tea,
lambs die and no one hears their cries.
Away From HomeChantel walked along the boring, grey hallway like she did everyday on the way to group therapy. Walking down those halls really reminded her how much she hated the color grey. The walls were grey, the ceiling was grey, the furniture was grey, the sky outside was often grey; the color grey seemed to be a pandemic and, the first point of infection was the building she now lived in. She was an inpatient at a sanitorium surrounded by bucolic fields, trees and, as Chantel had figured when she arrived, nothing else. Thinking about the surrounding countryside reminded her of how she had been dropped at Mountainview Sanitorium by her untenably furious parents just a week ago. However, it seemed like years since she was sitting in the leather back seat of the family Volkswagen, duffel bag at her feet. The door to group therapy and the face of her friend Claire woke her from her reverie.
“Dude, lets go! Doc is gonna kill us if we’re late again,” Claire smiled as she remembered
For those who are teasedPity those
who throw knives
at your back,
and they're left
with porcelain skin,
and broken knives.
he saved me, but he killed me.
i. first light- i met you in a crimson forest.
it was a rose garden summer, and out of a black mercedes
you walked out, your five year old eyes greener than
you reached up to pluck a rose from its stem, and offered it to me.
"what's your name?"
daddy told me that i couldn't tell strangers my real name.
I looked at the rose in my hand.
you smiled, you were a seastorm of now long-gone innocence.
i didn't understand
but I knew.
ii. i forgot about you for
1562 days, 11 hours, and 22 minutes,
my name, but i didn't recognize you
until i saw your eyes.
iii. my father fell and didn't stand back up again.
i screamed, and you carried me home.
iv. i didn't talk for a week.
i stared at the gray of the sky. it was the color of my father's eyes.
you sat next to me in the pouring rain,
Ugly Scars“Why do you cut, dear?”
“Doesn’t it hurt?”
Of course it does –
It hurts more than I’m worth
“Why do you cut, dear?”
“Aren’t you ashamed?”
Of course I’m embarrassed,
But I’m used to the blame.
“Why do you cut, dear?”
“Why don’t you stop?”
Can you stop a dead body
From starting to rot?
Because, darling, you see,
I’m not even here.
I’m only a corpse
With no hope, and no fear.
“Why do you cut dear?”
Well, don’t you see?
There’s a pain inside
So deep within me
And it’s coming to the surface
But no one understands
So I put that pain
Inside my hands.
And I lay it out
For all to see
On wrists so red
And forearms that bleed.
“Why do you cut, dear?”
“It’s ugly, you know.”
“ugly” is exactly
What this is meant
Anxiety attackAs the attack begins,
I feel myself slipping away again.
And I question things that are better left unsaid.
And contemplate if I am better off dead.
My anxiety is killing me,
I feel my hands shaking.
And I am sobbing.
And am I dying?
I am just trying,
To get a grip.
But I feel my reality slip through my finger tips.
Nothing is real,
Except every bit of pain my mind forces me to feel.
Every memory that I had shoved away.
Is now racing around my brain.
It's driving me insane.
And my limbs turn to jello.
Every time my head hits the pillow,
Before I go to bed.
I start to panic and I am wide awake instead.
More thoughts are swarming around like a hurricane.
Make it stop!
And just like that,
The attack is gone.
Self-Harm Isn't a HandbagPick at the scabs of the ghosts of scars
On the insides of my wrists,
White hot pain memories shoot up my veins
And the tear vapour creates mists
In the lenses of my glasses.
My world narrows down to those
White stitch marks that keep the
Patchwork of my forearms and thighs
Keeping the dark ugly hurt
On the insides
How could I have done this to myself?
Could I blame you?
And her too?
I’m a big girl now,
And the blame rests on my wrists,
That flicked the blade
And sprayed the blood,
And the mind that forbade
Me to ask for help.
I’ve said it before
And I’ll say it again;
It isn’t beautiful
To put yourself through such pain.
When your head is buzzing
From the hit of the high
Of a new cut on your thigh,
Or your mind is lost in a mist
Of ecstasy from a new slice
On your wrist
And you’re dependent on it
A junkie needing a hit,
It isn’t pretty or cute or special.
No amount of kisses
Will undo the cuts
Or absorb the scars.
BipolarThere's that moment when I wake up in the morning,
And without a warning.
I feel myself plunge into the ocean.
As my thoughts drown me,
Like anchors tied to my ankles.
And I feel the water all around me.
I am being consumed by the sea,
My mind is my own worst enemy.
There's that moment when I wake up in the morning,
And I get that feeling.
In my chest,
But it's not pain.
I feel like I am actually sane.
Or maybe a little more than that,
I feel creativity and happiness,
And just plain joy.
I can't describe this emotion,
I just know that I actually feel alive.
Maybe even more than that.
And I can laugh and I am okay.
But then there is the next day.
And the next,
Until it all goes away.
And then I am neutral.
I am not manic.
I am not depressed.
I am not anything.
I feel bored, irritated.
I don't know what I am.
Just plain, nothingness.
I don't feel creativity flow through my finger tips,
I feel this might be a sinking ship,
Fades to the next hour or so.
And I am once aga
God's PaintbrushI've learned that God's paintbrush is incredibly flawed,
with lashes picked at, and bristles torn nearly off.
I don't think everybody likes what God paints,
because we're always trying to smear it away.
We cut off a few pounds, or cut up some skin,
when we soil the paper, we throw it in the trash bin.
I think His paper has been sauntered with tears,
or blood, and vulgar language from our peers.
Like others have taken His brush and dipped it in oil,
and have painted themselves, in a way that's soiled.
I knew that God's paintbrush was incredibly flawed,
but that doesn't mean that we should change it at all.
“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” they say,
perhaps it would be better to keep it that way.
I'm incredibly certain that God makes no mistake,
I think that we do, when we try to be fake.
When we take His art into our own hands,
and when we ruin the strokes that He carefully commands.
I don't really think that God wants us to be perfect,
if so, then He wouldn't take th
concrete doesn't exist without waterwe dream about the nights
where your head is resting
against my chest,
with blankets sprawled,
our legs intertwined
you right hand locked
with my left,
and my right hand
placed on your lower back.
and while i see these things
in my sleep,
i lie awake imagining
the fragile moments too.
not your cliche
but when i say something
without thinking and it hits
you in the place where i swore
i’d protect with my life.
when i say something
that means the world to me
and it’s nothing
but a scoff for you.
when someone’s loved one
finally meets meta
and we have to be there
still dealing with the physical.
i think of those moments
far too often
and how we’d handle
them when we’re just strong
enough to be fragile.
simplicity is intentional
and humanism is concrete
until life hits
and it isn’t what you imagined.