She sat in her chair across from me

Scribbling on a pad of paper that held pieces of my life in a careless pattern

“Write,” she said.

So simple and stupid

As if writing in a journal can change my problems

As if violent words would suffice my screams

As if written pleas will help me.

Her suggestion was pushed to the back of my mind

Clouded by dark sickness

And I sat on the edge

My mind was eating me alive.

My insides were cursing terrors that blinded my eyes and stripped my beliefs

Mental blackness disguised red and raw

In that moment

Alone in the bathroom with the company of a blade

Her words flashed across my mind

“It can’t be any worse,” I thought.

Written words couldn’t possibly dig me deeper

So I found a pencil

Dull as can be

So I found paper

White and pure

My hand painted words that drowned in the tears falling off my face

It moved so quickly

Everything inside of my flowed straight through my hand

Releasing the pressure I felt

The pressure I thought could only be released by a blade.

When my hand stopped moving

My tears dried on the page and stained my eyes red

I felt drained and weak

But alive.

I was alive.

The once blank page was now beautiful.

Emotion in black swirls known as words filled every space

Every trouble was quarantined

My head was no longer clouded.

I write to stay alive.

Because every poem

-With scrambled words and distorted meanings-

Is my soul clinging to survival.

My journal may be raw and intense

But those rhymes define who I am.

They are me written in pen.

Poetry over blades

That is why I write.