To the girl who skips dinner,
Because her reflection hurts more than
Starving.
To the boy who wears sweatshirts
On hot summer days,
Because he doesn’t want his mother to cry over his
Scars.
To the boy who weeps uncontrollably
Until he falls asleep,
Because it’s the only way to escape into his
Dreams.
To the girl who spends her days in her bedroom,
Because the dark is more peaceful than her
Mind.
To the child who gets angry,
Because no one understands.
To the teens who self-harm,
To the ones in recovery,
To the ones that just can’t do it anymore…
Stay Strong.
For the girl who skips meals
And the boy who wears sw
A gown of silk, flowing as a stream,
Her footsteps so gentle, perhaps she was a dream,
As he crouches near bushes to glare at the unseen,
And she danced like ballerina.
Her fingers combed her golden hair,
A perfect lady who didn't care
To see the man that would never dare
To touch a ballerina.
But desire grew, and patience died,
As a lovely girl danced before his eyes,
So he buried his heart, pulled out a knife,
And tickled the ballerina.
She fought his hands, in fear of death,
A dirty blade sinking through her chest,
For he would never settle for something less,
As she screamed,
She cried,
She took her final breath...
And the wind grew
you are what you eat by A-Lovely-Anxiety, literature
Literature
you are what you eat
domine, adiuva me
i never wanted this
to happen the way it
happened.
it was supposed to be so
clean-cut;
i was supposed to be gone before
they even
noticed.
cunabula me
there was
screaming and shouting
and vomit and
oh-my-god
where are my fingers?
my vision is so blurry,
ice cold water rising up,
touching my chin.
i do not remember
how i got here.
i do not remember
i do not remember
i do not remember when i
vomited upon my body,
nor when i was lain
naked.
diligo mihi
there was an open
bottle of pain meds when she
walked through the door.
three little white pills
lined up,
the rest missing from their
plastic jail.
where are the pills, s
i heard you howling
at two a.m. in the bathroom,
the rain drowning out
your dreams.
i heard you tearing at
the hollow of your throat.
you'd think that no one else would be
as sly as you to know
you aren't really what you say,
you're not okay--
you're not okay.
you named her anne after
the mother that never raised you.
called her your baby,
but never once did she
press her tongue against her teeth.
i saw the song lyrics
scrawled on the back of your hand
when you were sound asleep,
fist in stomach.
she's got bruises on her neck
that match up with yours.
she's got fingers like your daddy;
about that one i'm sure.
i read the words that hung
on
Bypass
She wasn't sure what was worse, hearing everything around her, down to the tiniest scratching of a spider, or the cold. It had crept into every corner of her being; every cobweb in her mind felt frosted over. The noises vibrated along the lines that crossed her mind.
She wondered if death would be warmer.
In my head,
The birds that fly above me
Are the dragons of my kingdom.
In my head,
Cats and dogs are lions and wolves,
And my fish is a sea monster.
In my head,
My pen is a sword,
And I’m fighting witches and evil men
To find my prince charming.
In my head,
Butterflies spin through the air
And fly through my bedroom windows
To whisper things in a language
That only I understand.
In my head,
There is a world other than
These black and white dreams
And these faded grey skies.
In my head,
There is a universe.
Can’t you see it, too?
You want to end it?
Think of this.
You write your suicide note... And you set it on the table.
You take your razor, your silver, two inch razor. And you start to slide it across your wrist. You barely feel a thing. After all, the pain of life is more than the pain of the blade.
And you take that belt you never wore, the one that was too tight, the one you starved yourself to fit into. And you wrap it once, twice around your neck... and you pull it tight.
Barely breathing, you put the ends of the belt on something to hold you up.
Something to strangle you.
Something to kill you.
And you die.
And that's the end, right?
Wrong.
So, so wrong.
A thirteen-year-old poet,
Whispers frolicking among her tongue
As a ballet dancer across a stage.
What to write, oh, what to write…
Her fingers wrapped around a pencil,
Gently tickling the page
With a language between herself
And her imagination.
Thoughts race through her mind,
One,
Two,
Three,
Quick!
Three,
Two,
One,
Gone.
Frozen hands on a silver clock
Turning moments into
D r e a d f u l h o u r s .
What to write, oh, what to write…
Crickets stop their chirping,
Birds start to sing.
Five thirty in the morning,
And not a single word on paper.
What to write, oh, what to write…
She begins to scribble across