She wears hypocrisy.She doesn't sleep anymore because the daysShe wears hypocrisy.6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
slide by when she doesn't have to think, and
it's easier to function when the faces blur and
memories wash together until her life becomes
one large rinsed out sentiment that she may
or may not remember. She doesn't know who
she is anymore, but honestly, who cares.
Sunday afternoon brings those fat red capsules
to keep her company, and monday morning calls
on little white pills that no body will see. Those
are the secrets she hides in her drawers, saving
until the wounds heal and the pressure starts
building. And pow. Like an explosion. Once, she
tried to tell you, explain to you her fireworks, but
you're too wrapped up in yourself to notice a
cry for help, anyway.
She crept through the window one night while the
rain fell, and made it to Pontiac before the sun rose
and the chemicals began to fade. They knew where
to find her; she has no where else to go. And if you
ask them of it now, they'll lie. She's perfect.
She breaks hearts, and
VIII. a note on self-injury. let me be the first to tell you that cutting doesn't bring about the same pain that an accidental slice, abrasion, wound, or nick does.VIII. a note on self-injury.8 years ago in Academic Essays More Like This
relief, calm, focus, release, yes-
but pain? hardly.
a doctor might tell you that the two wounds are the same. but any cutter will tell you that no other scrape or cut will run as read, as true- with as much force as that which is self-inflicted.
a cut, you see, is perfect. it's kind. it's understanding. it washes away all chaos and emotional turmoil with beads of red (and if you're deep enough, mahogany) that quickly join and run down the length of your arm.
a cut is simple. predictable. the slice, the bite. the blood. the scab. the itching the next day. the eventual scarring. the fading. and when you can no longer see the angry marks, the inexplicable and undeniable urge to make them appear again.
even your excuses are bland a
15. The first year.1515. The first year.6 years ago in Biography & Memoir More Like This
I could be cliché and start with "I remember the first time I did it like it was yesterday..." but I would be lying. I don't remember the specifics that I would if I remembered the day so clearly as I remember yesterday (though I have to admit I really don't remember some specifics of yesterday, either). I remember fighting with my brother (though I don't remember what that fight was about) and I remember crying and not being able to stop. I remember wanting to stop more than anything, and soon after remembering a friend who had cut herself. I remember remembering that I'd promised myself I would never, ever do it. And I remember not caring as long as it would make the tears stop...
A few minutes later I was closed away in my closet with a pushpin from the cork board that hung over my desk. I hesitated only slightly before pressing it to my wrist. I ran the point back
WristbandsHiding cuts with recovery wrist bands,Wristbands5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Covering all flesh from shoulder to knee.
We wonder if this secret can be kept forever,
Living in fear that someone might see
While at the same time crying out,
Wanting love and support through the pain.
But no one would believe us, or no one would care
So we cut and we hide- all over again.
When you see somebody in the August sun,
Long sleeves and jeans covering skin-
Spare a just a moment to remember:
We are more than our scares, we are what's within.