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i may die from the rumbles in my stomach when i starve myself. i may die from the blade i dig deep into my skin. i may die from the alcohol i drink to drown the pain.
no one talks about how it itches. it burns it stings it stains theres little streaks of shame  on the back of my pillow case as if I could hide it  when its that close to my brain.
dear depression, i’m going to be honest: this is an ode i’ve written before because i have the habit of giving life to my monsters by giving up my own.  this is an ode i’ve written before
I met a girl once,  whose hair absorbed sunlight and face repelled it. She said she was allergic to daisies and fireworks, armpit fat and turmeric
dear the person we thought we could trust, here's to another night, of being curled in a ball,  sobbing out my emotions. you hurt me again.  and it left me confused as to why?
To the ones who press blades to their thighs. I ask, do you also think the dragging metal feels like the clouds in the sky? People think we are weak but they don't understand that the pain we create is a pain we seek.
Mistrust and suspicion rule in my brain They run  cross country inside my heart. Loud thumping, mind racing, loosing the control Your breaths quicken and your sight blurs.
One The first is always the hardest. You have to push yourself into it. Cutting into innocence, cutting into your soul. At first it stings but soon it subsides and you crave the lingering feeling of control.  
The first summer that I saw blood when I went to the bathroom was the first summer a boy slid his hand down my shirt, the first summer I learned my body did not belong to me, that I was either going to be powerful or property.  I learned quickly
"Write about a trouble in your life," they say- but in no way      can I relay        the way that I got laid
(The words below may be triggering to anyone with depression and/or anxiety..)
when is it approprate to give up and give in when can the breathing stop and the struggles cease to be must this tradegy continue must there be a crash and burn cannot this end here and now
Deadlines Closing in, a crouching tiger Waiting for me to fail, say something wrong As if I didn't hate myself enough already "Quit making excuses, there was plenty of time for this assignment"
it’s the one four-letter word that doesn’t get censored in newspapers but instead gets thrown around in Call of Duty victories, “haha, dude i ****ed you!”, it’s not lust
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