A Collection Of Self Written Poems.

What Was I Thinking?!

I paint a picture of my eyes crying. But here's the thing. The canvas is my wrist, and the tears are my blood.

She knew no one could read her diary. It was perfectly hidden and easily transportable. Instead of words, there were scars. To replace paper, there was her wrist. And her ink is blood.

Her life was a masquerade. Her smile was her mask and her sleeves were her cloak. But take those away, and you will see a skeletal, burned, bruised, cut shell of her.

Every night before I sleep. I take my tissues and my knife. And I cry. I let them loose and look. Looking at the girl in the mirror. Holding a knife and crying her blood.

I sit here. Hoping. Hoping for someone to see my cuts and scars. That someone helps break my mask of misery. But here I am. Scars and cuts growing. But I grow smaller.

I had a friend who painted. But it costed her. Her brushes knives and her paint blood. Here's the worst. Her canvas was her wrist. She lives at the Garden of Memories.

The lock clicked as I locked us in. 'You're lazy. Fat . Useless. Invisible . Why do you think you're so special. THEY HATE YOU! ' she says. She thrust the blade to me . I take it to my wrist. Lines sharp , faint pink on my white wrist. Wrist says stop . Brain says go . Knives fly straight towards me. "She is lazy " , "You're so ugly, it isn't funny ","You are an IDIOT " , "You will go to Hell " , " Bitch ", "Ugly ","Lazy ","Fat","Hell","Idiot " . I look down at my wrist. It reminds me of a checker board.
"Kaia, what happened to your wrist? " , " A bush got it . " I wake up and everyone is laughing while I break down inside.

I smile, I hug , I squeeze, and I lie . You notice I stopped eating. "I ate. " , " No , I'm okay . " , " I'm doing good. " . Such a great mask of excuses .

No . It's not 'cool' . Or funny, or adorable. It's deadly. And I do it to myself every night. If you weren't so focused on hurting me, you'd notice your words of salt aren't needed on my wounds. Why do you need to hurt me?

I know it's stupid. Even the sky does it. So why . Why am I afraid to cry?

I listen. To the words you slice in me. It hurts. I'm losing the battle. I see the light. Your arsenal of knives can't reach me here. As I look down, the pavement 50 feet below is comforting.

I write these words as messages. I see them as codes for my screaming. But you see them as lines in this poem. Read between before I'm gone early.

I'm screaming at the top of my lungs. Why can't you hear me? Look behind the door of my calmness. Why can't you see me suffering? Look behind the door.

I am telling you. I have been telling you . Just not verbally. I push up my sleeves for you to see. I wear shorts for the world to see them. So don't say I never told you.