Emo? I think notSo, because I have cuts on my wrists, arms, legs, hips and stomach, I am Emo.Think again,Emo is for losers with nothing better to doEmo is a fad that people follow because it's "cool" to cut yourself.Emo is a label applied to everyone who self harms, whether they are or notEmo is a derogatory term used by teenagers to make fun of cuttersEmo is a word belonging only to those who have no REAL reason to be sad.I, my friend, am a cutter...Being a cutter is feeling completely worthless.Being a cutter is feeling like your heart has been ripped to bloody shreds, without it's constant beat ever ceasing.Being a cutter is not wanting to get up in the morning because you feel like no one would give a fuck if you weren't there.Being a cutter is not knowing where you get the strength to continue living.Being a cutter is considering suicide as the only way things will ever get any better.Being a cutter is wishing for a serious accident to land them in the hospital to see if anyone cares
Is My Heart Broken?I don't understandWhy my heart beats the way it doesWhen I see your smiling face.
sleep and dreamevery ebb and flowswims like a memory,floundering or achingthe way they dowhen sleep deems itselfking of impossibility.(these are the timesi wish you couldlove me long enoughto remember,and dream.)
TrappedHere I am. Why don't you see me? The real me. Do I have to scream for you to hear that I'm dying inside? I'm trapped here, inside my own head. You see my mask. The one I don't even realize I put up. You never ask me what's wrong. You never ask me about the cutting. It makes me feel like you don't see me. I know you love me. You guys are my best friends. Don't get me wrong, I don't want you guys on top of me all the time, asking if I'm okay. But it would be nice if, just once, when I lie and say I'm great, if you would look me in the eye and say "No your not, tell me the truth"I am an eccedentesiast, just a big word meaning I fake a smile. I'm one of those few people who, when faking a smile, can make it look real. Too real. If you watch, to see how long it takes for that smile to fade, it was barely even there.
BeautifulI felt beautiful today.I didn't straighten my hair,And I didn't put on makeup.I closed my white blinds and letThe light shine throughFor a fresh background.I stole my fathers camera,Turned on my iPod, and began to dance.I held it away and smiled,Letting the -click- of the shuttersBlend with the music, forming its own beat.I grinned and twirled in one of my sister's dresses,Not giving a care should she walk in.I laughed and fiddled with my hair,I was coy and shy and natural.I shed my shell of T-Shirts and jeans,And let myseelf be free.I look at the pictures I had taken and said,Oh- there you are.I've been looking for you.
Old hauntsNumb fingers fumble at coppersand a dodgy purple lighter which is unfit for purpose.Giant splodges of starsas if God - in a frolic of youthful exuberance went wild with a paintbrush.Granite delicately held by shape and contour alone.Slotted together: a melee of ankles, hips, spontaneous larynx.Careless hopes, dreams wide, menthol cigarettes.Thoughts all quiet.
dear alaina.dear alaina,i am not being passive-aggressive. i am not avoiding confrontation or arguments or sensitive subjects so that i won't get upset: i'm writing a letter that i can't imagine you'll see, explaining to you everything that i need you to know.i'm sorry i'm not better. i'm sorry that i'm not trying. i'm sorry, but i can't, not now. i wish you could understand, without any fear or worry, that i need to destroy myself before i can get better. it's like i'm a phoenix, needing to catch fire and turn to ash before i can be reborn. i need to be the biggest source of pain and misery in my life; i can't let anyone else have the power to hurt me more than i have hurt myself already.it's not enough to tear myself apart, in every sense that i can. it's not enough to pull strings of skin from the teeth of my razor and clutch toilet paper from the public bathroom to my arm like if i don't, i might die - in all hones
glowthere are days i don't want the sun to set on us; where we should race it, rolling westward at an unstopping momentum, bringing erasure to the day's beginnings as we flood toward an unreachable end.it's a day like this when i realise we're impossible -- you, with your baked-clay shoulders, squeezed tight and compact, small but so present, you, with your brier of black bristle encompassing the two lips, softest rose, bringing nature back to intimacy.it makes me catch fire, in our setting sun, to see a desert-bright radiance reflect in your room. it's when you change your clothes behind the wooden door of your dresser; when you return from a shower, a rainstorm bringing me beauty and the complex scent of a clean man; when you dim your light to match the moon's as you strip off the day and safely stow away a secret within me.the sun sets too quickly for us to catch it. the longer you hold me in copper embrace, the sooner we reflect the short daylight we are given.
SuicideSuicide. As I move my fingers across the keys, The letters forming as if onpuppet strings. They create a sentence a word