Hush, little baby, drink your spoiled milk
I'm crazy, need my prescription filled
Do you like my cookies? They're made just for you
A little bit of sugar, but lots of poison, too
I used to write, a lot. Hidden them as they could be triggering. These are a few of the things I came up with:
The following content has been hidden - Reason : possibly triggering, mentions self-harm
ANTISEPTIC
I have this cold cream
Antiseptic; white.
I put it on my cuts and grazes
Bumps and bruises
Soon-to-be scars.
I love the smell of
Antiseptic cream on my hands,
Underneath my fingernails.
Inside these new wounds
It tingles and soothes
And helps me remember that everything heals,
Eventually.
I forgot to think of you
So now every time I move it hurts
It's my fault, I know
But I'm selfish enough to still complain.
It's my fault
It's my fault
As always
I love the smell of antiseptic cream
On my hands
Underneath my fingernails,
Inside my cuts.
It turns the pink white
It'll be alright
I promised I wouldn't
I swear
I swear
I lost all that time I gained
Scrimping and saving the days,
All thrown away in less than ten minutes
I'm sorry,
I'm sorry
I'm so ****ing sorry
I just repeat myself
Every red line is the same
I have this cold cream
Antiseptic; white.
Perfume in the ingredients
Chemicals to knit my skin together
Do you forgive me
For failing you, again?
I'm sorry
I just keep repeating myself
Every red line is the same
BLUNT
I hate this body I am in
The ugly breasts and the
Scarred skin,
The tiny wrists and ankles that can barely hold up
My hourglass frame full of sand.
I hate my huge hips and my thin lips
The skin that folds as I hold my hands
Close to my chest,
To protect myself.
I look so much thinner sideways on.
I found my mother, usually so strong
Sitting hunched with a tissue and a face of tears on
Gasping, sobbing, weeping.
I hate my pale arms that wrap around her hot neck
The thin to thick scars she used to check
I hate a lot of things,
That have no meaning.
I can’t ask what the matter is because I can’t handle it.
My wide white thighs with
Spider leg veins and red blushing blotches
Huge white and purple scars in a
Crocodile line,
I want to –
But, how many times have I written about
“Filling in spaces”?
It gets old too quickly,
And quite honestly I am
Too tired to cut.
I would love to get sidetracked from the whole
Preparing for my future and all that,
But I care too much about making other people proud
And I will not make you proud by carving into myself some more.
Yes, I think about it all the time and I
Reassure myself that tonight will be the night I finally give in but
My blades are all blunt.
BUTTERFLY
I feel so sad today
My eyelids are sore with interrupted sleep
And my hands weigh me down,
Heavy with the metal they could be holding.
I feel so weak today
Every movement is a colossal effort
And my thoughts don't make sense,
Flitting in and out of my attention span
Like butterflies with razorblade wings.
Butterfly blades,
So perfectly made for me.
Using tricky metal tools, to pry them out of their
Plastic case
And they fall into my lap like windchimes.
I've never seen blades this thin and precious before
I could so easily snap them between my
Thick clumsy skin-covered thumbs
But I hold them like tiny little fragile butterflies.
I like to think I stand out, and maybe
Make more of an impression
Than my friends
I like to think I'm a bit of a butterfly
In a field of flowers
Wearing far more colour than is advisable
Catching the light with my wings
I wear butterflies around my neck
In my ears and on my wrist
I give butterfly kisses and make butterfly wishes
But I like lions better.
My counsellor said I needed to let it all out
And she seemed pleased when I finally cried
Is this a breakthrough? Am I suddenly cured?
All I can see are my butterflies.
Butterfly blades are all I can think of
Wrapped in white tissue so they won't go blunt
Sitting next to my birth control pills,
And absorbing the scent of wood.
They're so thin, so I imagine
The cuts will be thin too
But like I always used to, I can just cut over and over
Into the same red line
Turning little streams into gushing rivers.
Butterflies,
Are beautiful.
They're not ugly red and white exposed
Biting my lip as I submerge my arm
Pink salty water,
And my friend telling me "you're leaking."
I wish I was a butterfly, so I could
Just
fly
away.
LIVING CANVAS
Once upon a time
I painted a picture
On pink-white canvas
I used crimson reds
Muscle grey yellow
Bone stark white
Dirt bruised black
I stuck on glitter
Layer after layer
I had to wait for it to dry
Because my fingers slipped when the brush was wet
I stuck in pins to keep it in shape,
As it lost the feeling sometimes
I remember every brush stroke
The small, multiple flicks of the wrist
They made the thick short lines
That stained the most
And the long luxurious sweeps that weren't as thick
But hurt so much more
I painted with my left hand
To show my creative side
I could have used my right, but then
I wouldn't have pressed as hard
I completed my painting a long time ago
But like all watercolour, it fades
And all the bright reds and yellows
Have merged to a dull purple-grey
I remember when it was just finished
You could even smell the paint
I don't think I'll pick up the brush again;
I was the only one who liked the picture I painted anyway
LOVE
My scars go up my arm
Like a ladder for a miniature person
Gripping each ridge in my skin to
Get to the cushioned palm of my hand
So they can rest their weary head.
My scars on my shoulder are clustered
And fine, like
A spiderweb made of skin
On my joint
It can't catch flies,
But it catches people's eyes.
My scars on my torso,
Are scattered like stars in a midnight sky
And in the light they shine and twinkle
Damaged, plastic skin
That reflects the light.
My scars on my thighs
Are wide and gaping
And perfectly smooth.
They blend in perfectly
With my blotchy white skin and
Tiny varicose veins.
I have a sick pride in my
Ugly scars
My expression of sadness,
My show of strength.
I feel very strong love for my
Beautiful scars
Who are as much a part of me as my
Beating heart
And blinking eyes.
I think you'd need to have cut yourself before
To understand.
RED RIBBON
My head floats, and buzzes
At the back
It's so uncomfortable
I have a
Bumble bee
Inside my head
Tapping my foot
Monotonous sound
I have shoes with strawberries on
And green pencilled eyes
But I'm so sad
So heavy,
I ache to feel alive.
I want to see what's inside of me,
Again.
Not as deep as liver and lungs and kidneys and
Womb,
But enough to see the layers of skin
Crumpled yellows and pinks and greys and reds
Red ribbon and lace.
I want to see what's inside of me,
Again
Open up my arms and legs with a sharp rectangular key.
Between my pathetic white scars
So pale it seems I might never have spent
Years, expressing on my skin
It's even paler
Sometimes there are freckles
Always space that I wish I could fill.
I'm infatuated, as I stroke my fingers over the
Grooves and bumps that I did to myself
I'm so close to being free,
And closer than I've ever been to starting it all up again.
I can't wait,
To celebrate.
Have a solitary party with no one else invited.
I'm always so cold and lonely
I can only be warmed up by hot red running over my forearms
Cool metal held between my lips,
Pushing down and across
Slowly
Like tracing a picture
Quickly
Like lighting a match
Over and over
In the same place,
Making criss crosses and
Big thick lines
You forget how much it hurts.
I want to cut
To slice, and slash
And make these urges go away
I can't hide by closing my eyes
And curling up under the covers
I just ache to feel alive.
SCRATCHES
Sitting in the sun
Watching and feeling the UV rays suck the pink out of my scars
Sitting in the sun
Feeling your gaze on my uncovered arm
I don't bother wearing jumpers anymore because
I thought everyone knew anyway.
And I hear your little intake of breath
Hear your nerves twisting
Can I really ask her that?
Resting my forearm over my knees, I try
To hide when tears
Weren't thick enough to cry.
But there's scars on the top
Because I didn't stop
And this is the price I have to pay.
Your little whispered, hush-hush voice
Clearing your throat, that rough flesh sound
"Ali, why are there
scratches
All over your arm?"
And my back stiffens, spine tense
Is that really what she said?
Scratches?
I didn't sit hunched on the floor
My toes curling with each slash of the blade
I didn't press that ****ing hard
And cut over and over again into the same wound
To make scratches.
What the **** kind of self-harmer do you take me for?
These pink welts are not scratches
These bumpy grooves are not scratches
The blood on the dark carpet and the drip onto paper
The blade on my tongue, my blood running over my lips as I
Tried to make it stop.
The salt water rubbed into everything I stained
The white support turned stiff and brown to hide the mess I made.
My insides roiled at the injustice
Of calling my hard work scratches.
My masterpiece.
Mine.
Please look though,
And tell me how disgusting it is.
In a sarcastic tone I tell her
"I have an angry cat."
