This poetry. What's the point?
They collide with a chilling intensity.
In mere seconds, I almost lost everything.
My scars are like the stars. Too many to count.
Some call them poems, but for me, they are all, self portraits.
He never played with me. He never taught me anything.
I cannot sleep. I wish I could weep.
2:14 AM. Words don't describe, this feeling.
I'm thankful for my treatment. For doctors and medicines and therapy.
It is a memory. Of things I've done.
Black socks don't show blood. White socks do.
Know that the effect your thoughts have on yourself and others have the opposite effect on me.
The picture is from the evacuee camp we stayed in while our town was threatened by wildfire. It's when I really started cutting bad.
Feeling you against my skin just makes it harder for me to resist X
ashes, ashes, we all fall down~