There is no knife that cuts my skin

Just too many bright reflections

Good words are screaming from within

And blood might help confessions

I’ve read so many similar words on here

In some weird way that fills me with fear

I can understand it’s romantic, I guess

But for once in my life I wish to hear less

Little red drops, they won’t help the pain
Big chunky bracelets on your wrist

It makes you feel like you’re insane

Yet still you remain, and still you insist

its very easy --
to get obsessed,

getting obsessed
...but with writing?

it can hurt.

because it becomes
your only way
to cope,
to stay sane --

to be okay.

and its hard to
open up to people
after writing for so long.


and having paper
be the only one
who truly understands.

its difficult to be
vulnerable and open
about your feelings
and opinions
when writing them
is all you know.

I can’t move.
The weight is everywhere.
It presses into my chest
Like even the dirt want me to stop existing.

I screamed until my throat bled.
No one answered.
No one remembered.

I guess they moved on.

“But you’re fine right?”
My therapist ask naively
Yeah I’m fine
Instead of drowning
I’m floating in a ocean
Surrounded by dolphins
Maybe one day I’ll sink peacefully