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Literature Text
it's a messed up world of messed up people, and this is how we live and die.
it's been exactly two-hundred ninety one days since he last drew the blade across his arms like the bow of a demon's violin, and it gets harder every day. he still breaks and he still falls and he can still be found on the floor at two in the morning, talking to himself and screaming at voices that no one else hears.
(but at least his scars have faded.)
she starves herself and vomits air because no one tells her she's strong enough and pretty enough and good enough to be alive.
he tells himself he is going to hell one day, and he is scared to death. but he doesn't pray because he's afraid Heaven would be ashamed to claim him as Its own.
she doesn't believe in God.
and they live.
he pretends his eyes aren't lifeless, and she pretends she is not empty.
(no one else really knows the difference anyway.)
he pretends that he'll wake up one day and it won't hurt quite as much, and she pretends that there's no such thing as a liar.
she says, "i'm not enough."
he says, "i'm not alive."
(there is no answer.)
she says, "i can't do this."
he says, "it's not enough."
there is only silence because it is exactly four o'clock in the morning and the world is asleep, just as it is the other twenty-three hours and fifty-nine minutes of the day.
and she is alone. she can taste blood and bile and her mind is spinning, but she feels at home and that is all that matters.
the water is deep but peaceful below. her feet dangle off the edge. headlights from a highway far off dance with the shadows that fill the darkness.
"this world could be beautiful if it tried hard enough," a voice whispers behind her.
"but it doesn't." she doesn't turn to face him because everyone's the same and he doesn't matter anyway.
he pushes past his own pain and his own intentions, if only for this moment.
"what if i told you you were beautiful?"
"what if i told you you were alive?"
he shifts uncomfortably. "things would be different."
"i guess they would."
he studies her silhouette for a moment, then looks away, watching the tiny specks of light in the distance; they don't shine that bright from this far away, but in a darkness as deep as night, even the most infinitesimal light can be seen.
a gentle breeze plays across his face, and then he draws in a deep breath.
"well, you are. beautiful, i mean."
there is no reply.
he turns back to her.
she is gone.
and he can hear the water parting violently below.
it's been exactly two-hundred ninety one days since he last drew the blade across his arms like the bow of a demon's violin, and it gets harder every day. he still breaks and he still falls and he can still be found on the floor at two in the morning, talking to himself and screaming at voices that no one else hears.
(but at least his scars have faded.)
she starves herself and vomits air because no one tells her she's strong enough and pretty enough and good enough to be alive.
he tells himself he is going to hell one day, and he is scared to death. but he doesn't pray because he's afraid Heaven would be ashamed to claim him as Its own.
she doesn't believe in God.
and they live.
he pretends his eyes aren't lifeless, and she pretends she is not empty.
(no one else really knows the difference anyway.)
he pretends that he'll wake up one day and it won't hurt quite as much, and she pretends that there's no such thing as a liar.
she says, "i'm not enough."
he says, "i'm not alive."
(there is no answer.)
she says, "i can't do this."
he says, "it's not enough."
there is only silence because it is exactly four o'clock in the morning and the world is asleep, just as it is the other twenty-three hours and fifty-nine minutes of the day.
and she is alone. she can taste blood and bile and her mind is spinning, but she feels at home and that is all that matters.
the water is deep but peaceful below. her feet dangle off the edge. headlights from a highway far off dance with the shadows that fill the darkness.
"this world could be beautiful if it tried hard enough," a voice whispers behind her.
"but it doesn't." she doesn't turn to face him because everyone's the same and he doesn't matter anyway.
he pushes past his own pain and his own intentions, if only for this moment.
"what if i told you you were beautiful?"
"what if i told you you were alive?"
he shifts uncomfortably. "things would be different."
"i guess they would."
he studies her silhouette for a moment, then looks away, watching the tiny specks of light in the distance; they don't shine that bright from this far away, but in a darkness as deep as night, even the most infinitesimal light can be seen.
a gentle breeze plays across his face, and then he draws in a deep breath.
"well, you are. beautiful, i mean."
there is no reply.
he turns back to her.
she is gone.
and he can hear the water parting violently below.
Literature
Cutting
My thighs were first.
Then my wrists.
And shoulders.
And fingers.
And feet.
Everything.
Ripped out at
the seams.
I ripped them out myself,
if only to avoid
giving others the pleasure.
I ripped them out hard,
if only to teach myself
a lesson:
I deserved it.
I ripped them out
and all the while
I sang to myself,
unable to cry
or scream
for fear
that
it would
make the
pain less real.
I joked about them.
I laughed about them.
I smiled about them,
calling myself
"the stupid emo kid"
and believing it was true.
It was true.
To me.
I deserved it.
I needed it.
I craved it.
I wanted it.
I breathed it.
I worshipped i
Literature
Dear self harm,
Dear self harm,
I am writing to thank you for your help over the past few years. You have helped me through a lot of my problems throughout my life. But I'm not sure if I can go on seeing you.
We met that one night a few years back in my bedroom. It was surprising how we just clicked like that. We're perfect for eachother. Whenever I was angry, you could always calm me down. Whenever I was upset, you'd replace my tears. Whenever I needed you, you were always there. You are my best friend. You are my hero. You are my saviour.
But then our relationship started going badly. I began to start using you. I insisted on you being there even whe
Literature
Suicide
You called me up,
crying,
down the phone,
you said you'd taken some pills,
and didn't want, to die alone.
Is your life,
that messed up,
you had to take steps,
to make it stop?
I cried to you,
to call 999,
you said you couldn't listen,
to voices other than mine.
your voice sounded weak,
fighting for breath,
the silence was noticeable
as if i was deaf.
The streets of heaven,
are already full tonight,
full of souls,
souls of angels,
souls like yours,
souls of people,
whose life ended too soon.
Your death,
has brought nothing but pain,
upon this world.
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this scares me.
i have been everything both these people have been. (things have thankfully changed and are still changing since then.)
people need to realize how much of a difference each and every person can make and how much they affect others before it's too late. because everyone is beautiful and good enough and loved and deserves to be alive. everyone.
just sayin', you know?
(c)
--
to write love on her arms: [link]
"love is the movement" by switchfoot: [link]
"breathe me" by sia: [link]
i have been everything both these people have been. (things have thankfully changed and are still changing since then.)
people need to realize how much of a difference each and every person can make and how much they affect others before it's too late. because everyone is beautiful and good enough and loved and deserves to be alive. everyone.
just sayin', you know?
(c)
--
to write love on her arms: [link]
"love is the movement" by switchfoot: [link]
"breathe me" by sia: [link]
© 2010 - 2024 t-writes-poems
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omg thats exactly the way i feel everyday. great story.