Broken Wounds

I let shit fester
And I dwell on things that hurt my heart
Like a broken wound
That I tear open and let bleed
Over and over again
I can wipe the blood away
But the cut remains
Still aching, slowly infecting me
So I break myself down
Like an unwanted box
I’m empty on the inside and out
Tear me apart
Made up of reused pieces
Damaged lungs and a broken heart
Even though it still hurts
I will rip off the scab
To re-open the wounds
Because that’s all that I know
So I will let shit fester
And I will dwell on things that hurt my heart

into the night

As I sit here wondering, pondering
All alone my mind is wandering
Thinking thoughts of regret and sorrow
Knowing that my shitty today
Will turn into a shittier tomorrow
Holding tight under my cloak of black
Hoping hell has a tunnel back
But I fear I’m stuck inside these fiery tombs
Drowning my lungs in the burning fumes
Losing faith in men unseen
Even death couldn’t make me clean
Thoughts lost in dark, I’m losing light
Seems my world is engulfed by night
Hatred brews in this mind of mine
And I lose touch from time to time
I let it slither under my skin
It eats me up from outside in
I wish my fears would somehow fade
So I could forget the mistakes I’ve made
But this hell within has its grip so tight
That not even hope could make this right
I think this is it,
I may have lost the fight
All that’s left is to drift off into the night

I Am A Statistic

 

 

  • An estimated 60 percent of teen girls’ first pregnancies are preceded by experiences of molestation, rape, or attempted rape. In one study, between 30 and 44 percent of teen mothers were victims of rape or attempted rape. Up to 20 percent of girls become pregnant as the direct result of rape.  Source
  • In the United States, one of every ten births involves a teen mother.    Source
  • The children of addicts are 8 times more likely to develop an addiction.  Source
  • Losing a parent to suicide makes children more likely to die by suicide themselves and increases their risk of developing a range of major psychiatric disorders, according to a study led by Johns Hopkins Children’s Center that is believed to be the largest one to date on the subject.  Source
  • On average, a woman will leave an abusive relationship seven times before she leaves for good.  Source

 

I am a statistic.

I can be categorized.

These things have made me what I am.

Today…

I am broken,

Shattered even.

I am missing pieces of myself.

I have lost control a time or two,

Maybe more times than that.

I have pushed away anything

Everything

That looked promising

That was good for me.

Out of fear,

Out of love.

I have been consumed

By my demons.

I have given up

More times than I can count.

I have Lied,

Cried,

Tried to move further down the road.

Sabotaged myself

Over and over again.

Picked myself up

After falling.

Dried myself off

After drowning.

Took a new breath

After suffocating myself.

I am a statistic.

My chances of making it past my past were slim.

Memories of it still haunt me.

Taunt me.

Fuck with my head.

BUT…

I am resilient.

I am stronger than I thought I was.

I am still here,

When statistics said I could’ve been dead.

I still live.

I still try to love.

I am holding onto hope

And wishes that may never come true.

I will still wish

And hope

And dream.

If dreaming is all that I have.

I am still lost,

But I am searching.

And someday,

When I find the right path,

I will find my way.

I am a statistic,

That made it to see another day…

 

Fears

I am afraid to lose those that I love
So I stopped feeling love
I am afraid of getting to close
So I keep my distance
I fear death
So I never really live
I fear the unknown
So I never believe
I hate living this lie
So I sugar coat my own truth
I hate my truth
So I keep living my fucking lie
I am afraid of my own fears
So I close my eyes and hide

Tug of war

I have grown tired of playing
This backwards game of tug of war
Somehow no matter who pulls the hardest
No matter who pulls the least
I always land flat on my ass
Wiping dirt from my knees
I can never keep them clean
This constant game that we play
I push
You pull
It’s all in good fun
You are my trigger
I am your gun
I pull
You run
My hand is a loser
You seem to have won

Let’s get this shit over with

I’m the perfect little pin cushion
I’m a self loathing fucking masochist
I play a dangerous game
Of cat and mouse
With my finger on the trigger
Barrel pressed against my head
I do it for the rush
For the feeling that Makes me feel alive
I do it to get my blood running
So I can again step back in line
Every person is lost
But I’ve yet to find my way
I stand still with your needles in my hands
What’s one more?
I do it for the pain
It gives me reason to survive
I feel closer to death while I’m still alive
So for you I’ll be the perfect little pin cushion
You can worry not
I’ll accept your pain with pleasure
Because this pain is all I’ve got

In my veins

I hate that the one I truly love 

cannot be around

I hate that this touch is toxic

and to that poison I am bound

I hate that this love has gone sour

like milk left out of the fridge

I hate how your love compels me

to leap blinded over a bridge

I hate how all this time has disappeared

and yet this love still shows

I hate how this love still exists

but mostly that every day it still grows