To you,

"You are not just a product of your enviroment.
You are not just another face on the street,
walking across but not through it
Too scared to take the leap-not cause of the fall,
but because you know what its like to hit the bottom.
You know that pain, that suffering and loneliness-
you know it well enough to control it-
because control is all you know. 
The dependance of that act, the need to follow through
one inch, one line of red drawn with each sin.
To you, who alone and losing your cool
runs that blade across your skin-
You are stronger than this.
With every etched word of disgrace
you take hold of this monster;
try to pinch the skin together
as the blood drips to the floor.
But are you trying to put the skin back together
or cause it to bleed more."


"Pain.
Deep pain, shoved away somewhere inside.
suffering, lonliness, shame, disgrace;
voices that should be heard,
people who need to be understood to be saved.
Not ignored, not following others leads,
sick,
but not uncurable or diseased.
A way to feel, not a way of life.
It's not a cry for help.
It's an escape, a dependance, an addiction;
her drug.
She doesn't feel normal, calm, clear headed,
until that blade touches her skin,
parting her flesh like Moses parted the red sea,
towards freedom,
escape. "

"Shattered.
Your control, thin as ice,
melting around the edges, crumbling into the dark waters.
Desperate, crawling on your knees
you lick up every drop of that control.
Gagging, swallowing hard to keep it down.
Toxic, now that it is stained by their words.
Nauseous, your stomach cramping around the shards
cutting through your skin, exposing the chaos beneath.
Their words, ringing in your ears.
They tell you to forget, to grow up.
Ignore the taunting, the laughing, the whispers, the jeering faces.
It is not forgotten, can't ever be forgotten,
repeating over and over; 'fat', 'weak', 'disgraceful', 'ugly'.
But...how can you forget, when the truth in their words
stares at you from the only reflection you haven't shattered.
This mirror has become your coffin,
Just one part of the tomb they make you enter every day.
You know they are trying to help,
but every glance, each second you view your own filth,
is echoed by the sound of a shovel entering the dirt,
each glance that follows another jab
as slowly you hear that 6 foot hole being dug
and with each shovel full of dirt that falls
is a whisper, calling your name."


"Every bathroom has become a tomb, the mirror a coffin
each glance the jab of the shovel digging into the dirt."