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.
when the eastern sun sinksi wonder if you wouldchange your mind(change yourself,find it in yourheartto feel a little somethingfor me)if you saw the wordsyou've pulled frommy mouth;uncovered by your lips,i find poems under my hands.i write strophes and linesimprinted on your skinwhen i move my fingers away.i have so much toshow you,i could give you so muchto feel,but you slink like anightcrawler from lightto a comfortable recession,and there,you stay.one day,we will talk againand no stammered heartwill beat like birdsif our hands touch;one day,you will realisethat sooner than you have,you could haveshared your selfwith someone elseand been safe-you would have beensafe
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.)
upon knowing the answeryou are punctuating.i find myself asleep beside younot dreading the most singular transitionbetween sleeping and sleeping aloneuntil i am wrappedchrysalisin my own bedwith too much spacesurrounding mei like thinkingof how this is not a memorythis is a momentthat is repeating itselfevery time we findthe gaps between minutesand fill them with ourselves,like photographs i can't wait to takeand imagine so many timesof the lens reflecting us,reversed images,and how that feelsmy feet are still unsteadyon a ground too nascent for tectonicsbut i am feeling promisein the way the camera catches youlooking at mein ways i don't see myselfi like to think of howyou touch meand howbetween mountain rangesit is so jubilantbuoyantfull like the cloudsforming castles in the heavensand it is so softso secretso lock and keythat i find myselfburning an obsession with heatunder my skinwhere your fingers and lipsleft off.
handsi call the basket weaver mother soshe'll curl into my future self but timedoes not go lending me a favour, knowswhose accusations fray its essence (minemight be the least inspired) but she will findthe centre of my soul outside of days,each reed she plaits a branch of my lifelinein disbelief of past or coming age.she grows indefinite & kneeling, prayswith spokes & palms repeated into sky,each revolution of the wicker mazeanother texture for the looping i -the cursive of this self she'll craft beyondthe memories of selves i'll have, i've lost.
I love you (though you'll never know)You've been sweet to me these days,though I ambroken glass and prickling skinpupils diluted in the midday darknesstic symptoms and bones bentyou've beenvery sweet these days.(I know why, though I play oblivious.)Smelling of sweat and sawdustskin cells strands of hair softly breathing against me,your pulse is 1,1 throbs per secondand when I curl up in where you are1,2 1,3 1,4 it goes up (you tried to take my pulse oncecouldn't find it and we laughed'that's my secret', I said,I'mactuallydead.)and yet you're here for me.this evening, halfway to hibernationour bones m e l tin the warmth,between our squished bodiescurve of your stomachround against my backside,we are (just flesh)lost and unfound,<