Emo? I think notSo, because I have cuts on my wrists, arms, legs, hips and stomach, I am Emo.
Emo is for losers with nothing better to do
Emo 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 not
Emo is a derogatory term used by teenagers to make fun of cutters
Emo 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 understand
Why my heart beats the way it does
When I see your smiling face.
when the eastern sun sinksi wonder if you would
change your mind
find it in your
to feel a little something
if you saw the words
you've pulled from
uncovered by your lips,
i find poems under my hands.
i write strophes and lines
imprinted on your skin
when i move my fingers away.
i have so much to
i could give you so much
but you slink like a
nightcrawler from light
to a comfortable recession,
we will talk again
and no stammered heart
will beat like birds
if our hands touch;
you will realise
that sooner than you have,
you could have
shared your self
with someone else
and been safe-
you would have been
sleep and dreamevery ebb and flow
swims like a memory,
floundering or aching
the way they do
when sleep deems itself
king of impossibility.
(these are the times
i wish you could
love me long enough
upon knowing the answeryou are punctuating.
i find myself asleep beside you
not dreading the most singular transition
between sleeping and sleeping alone
until i am wrapped
in my own bed
with too much space
i like thinking
of how this is not a memory
this is a moment
that is repeating itself
every time we find
the gaps between minutes
and fill them with ourselves,
like photographs i can't wait to take
and imagine so many times
of the lens reflecting us,
and how that feels
my feet are still unsteady
on a ground too nascent for tectonics
but i am feeling promise
in the way the camera catches you
looking at me
in ways i don't see myself
i like to think of how
you touch me
between mountain ranges
it is so jubilant
full like the clouds
forming castles in the heavens
and it is so soft
so lock and key
that i find myself
burning an obsession with heat
under my skin
where your fingers and lips
handsi call the basket weaver mother so
she'll curl into my future self but time
does not go lending me a favour, knows
whose accusations fray its essence (mine
might be the least inspired) but she will find
the centre of my soul outside of days,
each reed she plaits a branch of my lifeline
in disbelief of past or coming age.
she grows indefinite & kneeling, prays
with spokes & palms repeated into sky,
each revolution of the wicker maze
another texture for the looping i -
the cursive of this self she'll craft beyond
the 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 am
broken glass and prickling skin
pupils diluted in the midday darkness
tic symptoms and bones bent
very sweet these days.
(I know why, though I play oblivious.)
Smelling of sweat and sawdust
skin cells strands of hair
your pulse is 1,1 throbs per second
and when I curl up in where you are
1,4 it goes
(you tried to take my pulse once
couldn't find it and we laughed
'that's my secret', I said,
and yet you're here for me.
this evening, halfway to hibernation
in the warmth,
between our squished bodies
curve of your stomach
round against my backside,
we are (just flesh)
lost and unfound,<