In My Mind

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

A poem about what life is like in my mind. TW: suicide and self-harm

In My Mind

 

In my mind,

Scissors aren't to cut materials.

They are to cut my skin.

Razors aren't for shaving,

But to drag across my wrist,

And bring relief from my pain

By causing more.

Knives aren't used for preparing food.

They are a weapon

I can use on myself.

Sharpeners aren't for dull pencils,

They're to be taken apart

And the blade used on me.

Glass is to be broken,

Shards used to draw lines of red.

Nails aren't to be painted and polished,

And smoothed with files,

But to be dug into skin and to draw blood.

Pins aren't to hold fabric together,

They're for scratching words into my skin.

Needles are not for sewing,

But to be held above flames

And pressed on myself,

Burning flesh and leaving scars.

 

Through my eyes,

Pills of medication are not for relieving pain,

But ending it completely,

By ending life itself.

Ropes aren't for tying things together,

But to be looped around the neck.

Blades are to be pushed into the wrist,

Freeing me from this world.

Water isn't something to drink,

But to drown in.

Windows aren't to be looked out of,

They're to be jumped out of.

 

In my world,

Words are lies.

People never mean what they say.

Promises are empty,

And they're always broken in the end.

Love is meaningless.

When people say "I love you,"

It's always a joke, or empty, or false.

Friends are fake.

They're never there for you,

No matter how much you've helped them.

Perfect is nonexistent.

Nobody is ever good enough.

Nobody will ever be.

 

In my book,

Sleeping isn't something that just comes

When you close your eyes.

It's something that's elusive and sneaky,

And it evades me.

Food is something disgusting,

Something to be avoided as much as possible,

And purged when it does enter my system.

Speaking isn't a way of communication,

But something that never happens.

Silence is preferred over speaking.

Breathing isn't easy, like it should be.

Instead, breathing is difficult,

Nearly impossible,

Because it's impossible to breathe

With this perspective of life.

 

This horrible hell,

Is life in my mind.


Submitted: December 22, 2020

© Copyright 2021 Luna Cai. All rights reserved.

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Add Your Comments:

Comments

Penny Scribe

It seems as if you have acknowledged the problem, now it may be easier to change it. I wish you good luck; and keep writing! (I find that it always helps).

Tue, December 22nd, 2020 10:29pm

KatV

Writing is good therapy, coupled with a therapist. Getting your thoughts out on paper is good; it's important. But sharing them with someone who is educated in the field of counseling (preferable a psychologist) is more helpful. I hope that you do both. Write on.

Wed, December 23rd, 2020 1:03am

Alizzia Ward

That must hurt, right?

But it doesn't mean that you must do these things in order to seek the world you're looking for.. (Well, I'm getting out of context now)

But at least, writing did help you to have to deal with things with ease. Stay safe!

Sat, February 6th, 2021 4:03pm

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