I self harm


I cut….

I cut because it’s normal.

I cut because it’s my relief.

I cut because I’ve been doing it for so long.

Since the first time I sat as a 4th grader in the middle of the floor, continuously scratching my frail arms and legs over and over and over…. Harder, and harder, and harder. 

Started scratching with all I knew, staples and the metal part of the tape roll.

Then I tried scissors, and needles, nails, knives…

Then I grew to come familiar with razor blades…..

I would hunt for them, ripping up perfectly good shaving razors, sharpeners, tools, whatever I could find…

If I couldn’t find any, I’d break glass…. Anything and everything my eyes came across with a pointy end…

It was my drug…. Still is….

I constantly thirst to cut up my skin… to make another scar… I love my scars… they aren’t ugly to me, they aren’t something I care to hide from everyone…

I constantly thirst to tear up my skin… until I have to hold a towel tight to my thighs…. Until I feel happy.

I… Self… Harm…

People ask me why?

I say because it makes me feel better… but that’s only half of it, it keeps me sane.

I saw my adopted mother Natalie cry for the first time when I was 15… The first time she saw my cuts and scars…. I said I wouldn’t do it again… and I meant it….

I’ve began to scratch again… my heart constantly pounding… craving that lovely silver paint brush I used to tell the stories stored inside my tiny, black, broken up heart….

Every night, I look up pictures of “self-harm”, “cutting”, “pro-Ana”, “starving”, “scars”….

Some people say it’s a trigger, and it is in a way… but in another way for me it is medicine, it is my paradise.

People will call me crazy… insane, disgusting, and worthless….. And they are probably right.

I hate the way I look, the way I sound, the things I eat, the person I am… I hate where I came from, the shit I had to go through…

I hate how she beat me…. How she kicked me out of the house when I was only 7, to sleep outside in the cold, I hate how she stole my stuff to sell for drugs, I hate how she forced me to do drugs and drink…I hate how she raped me, from 6 to 12…. I hate everything she ever did…. I HATE HER.

They say I’m just like her…. I look just like her… I act just like her…. I am her…. That’s what they say…


But they are wrong…. Very wrong….




This poem is about: 
My family



I may not know you, but what I see is true. I can't imagine what you've gone through. I haven't gotten to the point of self harm, though I've thought it before, but I know what it is like to hate who you are. The insecurities you face, the judgement you see. I'll believe in you if you believe in me. Stay strong, and prove them wrong. I see a some one who didn't know what else to do, when it came to copping with the unthinkable, and what is wrong, nothing. Don't hide it away, and be strong, don't give in...I'll come along. I hate my journey to love myself, it's hard and difficult, I've needed others to help myself. You're a beautiful person, no matter what they say, I don't know you in any other way. I'm not here to save you, or even remotely try. I'm telling you what I see in the writting, the real truth, not the masking lies.

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