play, pause, replay

i know it's (less of) a sad poem

at times i just can't stop crying.

there's a stale conversation on

the other side of my fractured window pane.

much like the red wine left cold

in the mug from last monday.

there are so many voices that

bleed into the air through

the morning light, like a

mosaic of the shards slicing my

bare forearm; like a fragment

of the last charcoal sketch of

wilted violets from my sister.

yet, sometimes i can never make myself cry.

no matter how hard i squeeze my eyes, or

how deep i plunge the razor into my blue flesh,

the voices clog all my tears.

it's only an unwelcomed silence that makes me

write about things i don't want to think of.

there's a wall of bougainvillea and betrayal

that always kills our exposed brain matters

and makes me the clown in the strip show

of lovers' language.

cigarette smoke rolls away from my vermillion lips.

it's started getting cold here,

numbing my limbs and dragging me

down to the garden of the dead.

there's a false god that cries over

our seven (hundred) sins:

it tastes like a forgotten toothache.

the sunlight burns my scalp and digs

the flesh of my brain until it bleeds.

sometimes there's nothing to think or cry about

except the bloom of red over 

my already blotched skin. 

the memories turn into red ashes, shredding

off their golden skins.

we aren't kids anymore; springs 

die in the call of winter.

can i run away from here and never come back?

can i scream for death and let it consume me?

can i have a last birthday wish for everything

to be cliché again? 

the voices don't go away. they wait

and wait and wait until you've turned into

a red lily crushed under rainboots.

can i rip my limbs off and burn my skin?

i know i can't. yet i try

and try and try,

pretending to be one of the violets

on my sister's grave.

━━━━━━━━━━━━ 

A/N: In crafting my poetry, I aim to delve into self-sabotage, shedding light on the nuanced pain of self-harm often overlooked in literature and conversation. My goal is not to glorify or wallow in this pain but to offer a lens through which the raw, unvarnished reality of such experiences can be understood and, perhaps, empathized with.

I sincerely hope that readers might find a measure of comfort or recognition in these verses and that these can serve as a beacon for those navigating their own complex emotional challenges.

With heartfelt wishes,

Sreeja.