paper cuts

paper thin

lines across

demons within.

criss cross

criss cross

across the lines of my wrists

and thighs

and legs

and stomach

and sides

and collar and hipbones

every inch of me that i can cover with jeans and a jacket.

the most delicate

silvery,

glowing,

Wonderful,

sinister,

horrifying,

Taunting,

loving.

blades that have been my best friend since seventh grade

touched parts of my no one else has.

seen my teary eyes and black bruises.

known me at my worst and darkest

yet, still,

i depend.

it's not right.

hell no, it's not.

but i'll be damned if i can let go of this art project.

cutting and pasting my bones together,

painting crisp lines with an expensive, cutting edge tool,

and believing the pain makes me feel

Beautiful.

And i can’t stop the thoughts.

Nothing eases my consciousness

 

Like fresh blood

 

Or dark ink

 

Staining the insides of my wrists.

 

And i am generation z

 

Generation hannah baker.

 

Generation names tattooed over scars.

 

I live with a house full of demons.

 

A house of memories per se,

 

A place in which i lie awake

 

Dreaming of suppressed

 

Hazy

 

And slightly scary

 

Faces with bright red scars crossing over their eyes.

 

So that they don’t see me.

 

I tell myself.

 

So i don’t have to look them in the eyes

 

When they know what i have done.

 

The slashes on my soul hold no leave on my body,

 

But if you look close enough,

 

There are gaping holes in my heart.

 

Places people used to plug up.

 

Because after all my scars,

 

The only thing left to burn and mutilate

 

Is my mind.

 

And that’s what counts.

 

That’s why i’m screwed up in the first place.

 

Words.

 

Words which told my best friends

 

She’s too fat- so she purges and quells her body of all nutrients until her hair falls out and she can’t eat anything but dry, stale toast.

 

He’s too weird- so he hides who he is under a blanket of lies and shy smiles, crumbling hearts so he doesn’t feel the pain of his own head,

until all he can speak of is flirtatiousness, and breaks silently underneath. His mother found the body.

 

She’s a prude- so she sells what’s left of her body in exchange for a reputation, but no one knows that with every time she let’s herself be

violated, she dies just a little bit more, because this reminds her of the time she was assaulted in puerto rico, and people watched and laughed as her shirt was hiked up over her head.

 

She was 13.

 

He was 7.

 

She was 16.

 

When will people finally understand

 

We are the remains of a broken generation.

 

No one feels our unspoken truces to never let them know.

 

Never show weakness…

 

It only makes it worse.

 

I am a girl with too many ghosts and endless scars

 

They are people, young people, lonely people

 

Dead people.

 

And no one knows their names anymore,

 

They are just labeled attention seekers.

 

Criss cross

 

Criss cross

 

Blades through our skin.

 

Her name was Brooklynn.

 

His Jared

 

a young girl nicknamed sunshine.

 

And my name last of all.

 

Because our little band of suicides.

 

Countless more unincluded,

 

I am the only one left.