i. because one day your daughter will ask you about the scars on your wrists. you will lie. you will say you cut yourself on some glass when you were in high school. she will smile. she will think the story of your clumsiness is charming. she will tease you. she will laugh. you will spend the rest of your life worrying that she will find out, the same way you found out your mother had lied.

ii. because it’s not just one summer of wearing long sleeves. it’s going to the beach and clasping your hands over your wrists instead of letting them chase the wind. it’s going shopping and being afraid to try the strapless dress your mother likes, because she might see the red lines. it’s not letting the person you love kiss up and down your arm. it’s not just one summer. it’s a constant, flashing, screaming, hiding in the back of your mind.

iii. because it won’t make you feel better. it might make it easier to breathe for a little bit, but see the blood will dry and you will panic and how do you clean the wound and see the skin swells and then it burns and it’s not poetic, it just hurts.

iv. because someone loves you. either your mama, your dad, your sister or your brother, your best friend or your boyfriend, but someone, in your life loves you. they love your skin like it contains galaxies, for you they’d move mountains, they want to kiss your tears away. you have a home in their arms. now and forever. and all they ask is not to hurt the person they love. all they ask is to keep the stars within you alive, to let the galaxies expand.

v. because you will get better and life will get better and days will get shorter and hours will get fuller. you will get better and when you do you won’t know how to make amends with your own body, how to apologise to it. you will get better, but your body will remember.

vi. because you still haven’t seen the sunrise over the ocean and you haven’t driven down the highway with the roof down and wind ringing in your ears. you haven’t kissed for hours that passed in a blink of an eye. you haven’t seen your favourite movie yet and you haven’t discovered you new favorite book. you haven’t built a snow fort with the love of your life. you haven’t danced it all out. or maybe you have. but are you really sure? are you absolutely certain that you’ve done everything you’ve ever wanted to do? everything you could ever possibly want to do? are you sure?

vii. because no sunrise is the same, and if you’ve seen it over the ocean, now it’s the time to climb mountains my dear. it’s time to fight.

—  m.v. seven reasons not to cut.

I. The other day, I told my best friend that there is a supernova exploding in my mind, and he said “Good”.
I told him that I wanted to put a bullet to my head to finally hear the silence, and he said he would find the gun for me.

II. When my mother walked into my room, she saw the knife tossed under the AP History book and said nothing.
When she looked into my eyes, she saw my tombstone and said nothing.

III. My little brother watched me remain silent and asked me why it hurt to form words.
I showed him that every sentence must come to an end and that the beginning isn’t worth the pain, and he turned mute alongside me.

IV. In biology class, I asked my professor what the point of existing is if we all die someday.
He told me that it is the nature of life to fight entropy, but I am not a fighter.

V. As I march down the street, the woman rushing to work catches my eye.
She does not see the long sleeves covering the marks or the emptiness in my eyes, and she smiles.

VI. We are not fastened to a cross with our brokenness.
The world does not know of the pounding on our skulls.
There are more stars in the universe than we can dream of.
We don’t have to fight.
We don’t have to give in.
We are stars, and we are bright, and one day, we will burn out.
But until then, we just have to be.

They say
that if you are broken,
someone will want
to love you.

They say
if you are drowning,
someone will hold you
in their arms
and read you Plath,
recite Bukowski,
turn all the
pain into poetry
until you can
breath again.

They say
as you shatter
you’re already
being put back
together by a
pair of hands
that don’t mind
the scars.

They say
that this is
that this is
that this is
worth it.

They’re wrong.

No one can help
you keep your
head above water
if you don’t want
to swim.
You can choose
to be the survivor
or the corpse.

The scars are
just scars.
You can’t turn
them into

The bottle
full of pills
doesn’t taste
It tastes like
Like nothing
at all.

When you jump,
no one will
hold your hand

—  Suicide Nation
the sound of a voice saying i told you so (yes, you did dear)

[this is 100% not what will happen, but angsty, v angsty, hollstein drabble, post ep 33, bc carmilla is all kinds of self-destructive. (but no character death i promise spoiler spoiler)]


the sound of a voice saying i told you so (yes, you did dear)


it starts with bloodshed, always bloodshed, always the same/ running from something larger than yourself story,/ but you still can’t get beyond your skin,/ and they’re trying to drive you into the ground, to see if anything/ walks away.
—richard siken, ‘driving, not washing’


You’ve wanted to die before but never like this. You walk out of that room and the world is stinging in your palms, the absence of soft skin against them. Your fangs come out—you let them—and then you suck one side of your bottom lip into your mouth and bite as hard as you can. You don’t bleed, but you know the taste of blood, and the metal is there all the same, and it feels like choking.

Read More

When I was 7 I learned what it was like
To feel dirty all the time
Even if I scrubbed myself raw
No matter what I did
I could always feel their touch
And hear myself as I cried

When I was 11 my math skills flourished
Only because I knew my body burned 1,552 calories a day
And a clementine was 35 calories
And if I drank 8 ounces of ice water it would burn 17 calories
But warm water mimicked the feeling of a full stomach
Stopping the hydrochloric acid from eating away at the mucosal membrane
Of my shrinking stomach
My mother praised me for becoming so thin
I praised myself for my self-control

When I was 13 I learned the art
Of stretching your skin apart
And pushing a razor blade down hard enough
To expose the yellow adipose tissue
Without having to go to the emergency room
Now my hipbones are littered
In dense connective tissue
That will not fade
No matter how hard I try to fix myself

When I was 14 I regained my lost appetite
But missed my protruding hipbones
And exposed rib cage
I learned if you stuck a toothbrush down your throat
You wouldn’t get acid burns covering your fingers
But if you drank 3 glasses of hydrogen peroxide
You threw up your whole meal

When I was 15 I kissed boys who didn’t care about me
Because they told me I was beautiful
While my knees became rug burned
And my mouth became sore
Their hands were hydrofluoric acid
Eating away at my skin
Leaving a decaying skeleton

Now i am 16 and trying to love myself
Even though there is nothing left to love

—  Untitled #16, ML
It’s kind of strange
For me to think
That others feel things
Less than me.
If she says
She’s not okay
She probably doesn’t mean
That her world is crashing down
Around her and she feels
Like she’s decaying
From the inside out.
If he says
He’s had a bad day
He probably doesn’t mean
He feels like death
Is the only solution
To the world that seemed against him
For the past 24 hours.
I’m not okay.
I’ve had a bad day.
I’m not like others.
I feel everything.
Always too much.
—  M.S.

anonymous asked:

I am so sorry but I am about to hurt myself again. I just need someone to talk to or lose myself in. your poetry brings me life. I don't know what to do and I don't know what I'm I'm even asking. If you are asleep or busy don"t feel guilty. I will be okay,

Baby I’m so sorry for getting to this late. I hope you were alright. I hope you slept okay. For future reference, if you need things to read, here is the link to all of my poetry  and here are some of my favorite poems. I am thinking about you and I hope you see this:

"Wild Geese" by Mary Oliver

Other Lives and Dimensions and Finally a Love Poem” by Bob Hicok

"I Want to Tell You Yes" by Kallie Falanday

"The Thing Is" by Ellen Bass

"Frida Kahlo to Marty McConnell" by Marty McConnell

"Nightwalk" by Franz Wright