You traced every contour of my body
Every wrinkle of skin that I hate
Every cellulite budge that I find repulsive
And told me that I was beautiful in skin that I have been fighting my whole life to crawl out of.
In your arms I feel whole
The weight of the world is no longer my own
I feel weightless.
Pushing myself deeper into you
So deep that my problems no longer matter
You make it all go away
You make me feel beautiful through long nights
Through tragic days
Through pain as well as glory.
You make me feel like I can do this.
Thank you.

Facebook's not a journal,
Twitter's not a place,
That's the massive problem
With the current human race.

Your mood is not a hashtag,
'Selfie' is spelled with an S,
We're really all addicted,
Which we know, but won't confess.

Our kids will play computers,
They'll be Apple's biggest fans,
But what about the authors,
Who wrote things with their hands?

Dickens, Wilde and Hawthorne,
I'm sure would bear a frown,
For PAPER was the only way,
They wrote their stories down.

Last night was the first night I felt something in a very long time.
Rusty razor blade in hands I navigated my thoughts - a nightly ritual needed for survival.
Cutting away every problem
A surgeon dissecting myself, removing the worries that have been malignant for so long -
I was dying with them
My hands no longer trembled
One incision after the next, blood doesn't come at first.
Flustered I state until crimson red beads surface slowly and pool over against pale skin.
My thoughts get quieter
I took a deep breath - I could feel the oxygen filling my lungs.
It didn't burn like it had moments before.
It felt like I was surfacing after days underwater
Just one more -
5,6,7
I was losing feeling in my hands
10, 15
In my feet
30
I start to feel dizzy
Red pours out of me
So beautiful
My heart rate so slow
My mind so quiet
So this is what heaven feels like?

He asks me why I cut
Fingers lightly tread the battered remains of my now feeble wrists
A question I've answered a million times in my head
Desperately wanting someone to ask
As if my jumbled thoughts might sound better outside the contents of my skull
My explanation catches in my throat
A conversation a million times rehearsed rings silent
He waits.  
It is impossible to explain cutting to someone who has never purposely taken a blade to their own skin
Much like it is impossible to explain the addiction of a  ****** addict to someone who has never been high
It is an escape
It is taking back control of a world that spins far too fast for its own good.
And for many it is power,
Feeling so insignificant in this world
A pawn in the hands of fate on any normal occasion can dictate life or death with a razor in their hand.
It makes you feel something when you no longer feel anything
It is a tattoo marking every day you've been too weak to carry on but survived
They are tragically beautiful scars tracing our bodies
That most of us would rather die than give up.
All of these things make no sense to a normal person
But I am so far from normal.
But maybe my silence is enough to make him understand
This taboo isn't worth fretting over.