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.
She said that it was what made things better.
It worked for her.
I tried it for myself.
Safety pins, knives, razorblades
an unsettling catharsis.
A self soother turned addiction
Hide them with long sleeves
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.