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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
Poem revolving around depths of self-hatred and destruction.

Submitted: February 03, 2017

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Submitted: February 03, 2017



Everyday I had the nerve to scream out the words “You are a whore, you are not worth love” 

and I would see the little girl’s face crumble in pain, distorted by my words

she was my reflection in the mirror,

and everyday I knew waking up was another day closer to a needle in my flesh

a belt squeezing my circulation to make me feel something other than pain

the numbness of a high, telling myself I was born to die before eighteen

That I was a mistake, born in sin and tragedy 

That I was not born in a hospital in the sunlight under God’s protection, but in a graveyard where Satan craddled me in blankets and he knew what a disgrace I would be

And the cuts weren't a cry for attention but a cry for help, but not from my family or the doctors or the people who said they loved me, but from the higher power I was taught to worship no matter what the circumstances may be

But I was an atheist by age six, because my parents screaming deafened me from the angels speaking to me

I saw the dead around me, and the energy constantly draining

My mother was a cheater and my dad majored in manipulation, I knew that that was my destiny either way 

so I smoked what I was given, snorted any crushed pills in front of me

Nosebleeds were more common for me than an A or a B on a test that scored me on my level of normalcy. 

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