PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

i slam my door,

screaming still ensues,

but the blood in body stops.

with my weapon in hand,

i fall to my bed,

the only thing that will catch me.

my razor is clean,

like an innocent child,

until someone comes along and changes them.

i hold on to it tight until it pains me so,

then i have to let go.



the screaming is loud,

and it tastes like vile in my mouth,

all the things being said in my head.

i cannot change the noise,

or the feeling of flesh beating upon flesh.

the smell of bruises is fresh,

as it lifts in my nose,

the familiar feeling of regret.



i curl up in the corner,

like i have so often,

and wait it all out tonight.



down my blade goes,

closer and closer until i am covered,

in my own blood.

i whimper and cry,

the pain is so real,

this time is not like the last.

there is yelling at crying,

from outside my room,

where everything is going on.

my long hair drapes my face,

where the tears fall straight down,

i cannot hide it no longer.



i curl up inside,

and lean against the wall,

like i have so many times.



the razor is red,

stained with my blood,

which is tainted,

with years of knowing.

my life is a story,

so long and so horrid,

that i'd rather die then tell it to you.

on my door there is banging,

and agaisnt the wall too,

someone is screaming for salvation.



but i am not here,

no i don't know where i am,

where ever it is i am safe.



with my puddle of blood,

and my dainty child-fingers,

i write my last message here.

the wall, so bland and white,

as the back of a crimson message,

stands like a broken promise is kept.

the razor again,

takes over me once more,

as i slide it down my neck.

make this fast make it hurt,

but please don't let me remember.



i wish it was done,

but i know that it's not,

i cannot help but hate myself.



the banging has stopped,

and my door is now red,

with my hand prints crawling up.

noise has settled except for the crying,

my heart can die to its content.

if there was anything that i thought i could say,

well, it's too late to write it down now.

i am well passed my time,

and when they find me next morning,

i hope they can read my bad writting:



i'm killing myself just for you.

thought it would make a perfect gift,

but the blood wouldn't stay,

and i just couldn't smile,

to finish cutting myself up,

to please you.