Sometimes my brain is not kind to me.

It started when I was twelve years old.

My classmate, a year older, had marks on her ankles.

Red

perfect

lines

She said that it was what made things better.

It worked for her.

I tried it for myself.

Safety pins, knives, razorblades

anything

an unsettling catharsis.

A self soother turned addiction

Hide them with long sleeves

and concealer. 

Carve the words into myself

poetry wasn't mine yet.

It went away when I 

decided It didn't help

But came back with the lightest mention

"Slit your wrists, you hypocrite"

"Pretty girls bleed out thier ugliness."

Poetic posts on Tumblr

dragging me back to my demise.

Maybe I'll get better.

Here I am,

going to meet better Better

whoever she is,

wherever she is.

Slowly

but surely.