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I can't stop staring
I'm in a trance
Holding a razor
I start to laugh
Why did I believe
I could be okay
My breath's a waste
I've no reason to stay

Look at my hips
Look at all of me
What a joke
A blob-ish mess
Needs to go
Press the blade
Gently into me
Or is it deeper
I can't tell
I stopped feeling today
Downward *****
I'm on again
I should end me quick
But I just can't

I laugh again
Oh how tragic
Girl hates herself
But deep down
Is scared to end it
Look at the blood
Pool at the incision
Until it drips down
Over my hip
And slow down
The curve of my thigh
It feels so good
Addictive high

If I felt pain
Maybe I'd stop
Maybe the red
Hitting the floor
Would frighten me
But I'm not scared
Not of blood
I'm scared of hurting
The ones that I love

So clean up the blood
Put the razor away
Grab some bottles
Paint, polish remover, glue
Whiteout, Windex
Anything to inhale will do
Wish I had a
Bit of ***** too

Waste myself away
Try to cope another day
I just can't. I'm so alone.
 Oct 2014 Beebz The Queen
matt
the slits on the wrist make pits void of flesh that is now ripped. **** whats happened to kids. instead of opening vanes open your heart and pour it out to someone you trust. i express this with your best interest in mind find someone who’s ears are funnels and let your soul out. cuts on the wrist won’t release you from these demons that taunt you it will only further haunt you.
[my lungs are like broken mirrors, reflecting my air into my stomach, while each breath is like choking down shards of glass. every time i swallow, they cut and scrape my esophagus so that i am gagging on my own metallic pools of blood.]
 Oct 2014 Beebz The Queen
ryn
Stars
 Oct 2014 Beebz The Queen
ryn
There was a time I saw...
The beckoning stars,
in your eyes, juvenescent.
Like beacons from afar.

There was a time I felt...
The burn of your lips.
The rush of crazed blood
that held in tight grips.

There was a time I inhaled...
your intoxicating scent.
Inciting cardiac somersaults
in a time long spent.

There was a time I thought...
We would last forever
through the last of grains.
Hourglass doomed to shatter.

There was a time I knew...
That nothing could ever alter,
same tune we have hummed,
words we've carved in each other.

There was a time I dreamt...
Of floating in your seas.
Your vast body enveloping,
drowning out my insecurities.

There was a time I worried...
for your dreams of grandeur.
When you spoke of seeking,
the dream of life much better.

There was a time I died...
When you had packed and gone.
Leaving only the broken
promises and empty dawns.

There was a time I hoped...
That sooner you'd be back.
Standing at my door,
beside you, your travel laden sack.

But now you're back...
The pain gnaws in greater bites.
The stars, they twinkle no longer
they were killed by the city lights.
Inspired by a story told by a friend.
I can smell him on my sheets
      I can taste him in my dreams
             I can still feel every inch where he's touched me
I hear his laughter echoing in the walls
             I can still see him in all these pictures I saved for
           memories

But this bed is bare
My dream's a nightmare
       I can't hear
             His laughter
       He's not near
             Enough to touch
My eyes are blinded by tears
He's killed my senses,  
      I'm no longer aware

Everything around me,  slowly fading away
His face, his scent, his laughter,  his touch
Maybe I'll just pop a few pills and sleep away the day
At least he's in my nightmares, the pain of reality is too much
He's gone...  He's in her arms now... I'm dying and crying and it's all just too much..
If i'm trying to say something
Come out of my mind.
If i'm trying to write a poem
Come out of my heart.
As I open the door

The cold engulfs me first
raising hairs on my neck, shivers down my spine, prickles on my scalp

Next the smell
so mild, pleasant, crisp. similar to rain or dew
my lungs take in this air for the first time

The light begins to peek over the mountains
clearing the fog, cutting away the dark

The quiet is both a comfort and an uneasiness
Only the earth under my feet whispers as I walk the dirt path

The lake unblemished, like a mirror for the sky to look upon
no wind, no waves, no life

standing there, absorbing the surroundings
I am the one to break the silence, to shatter the utopia
as I drop the pebble in the waters…

these ripples go on                                                              *­Forever
The amount of similies in love poems are ridiculous.
They always remind me of how his eyes are as green as a Christmas tree
or how his hair fell onto his face like a shadow
or that when he blinked his lashes resembled butterfly wings
or that his smile was similar to a crooked coat hanger.

They never mentioned
how his fingers were long and shaky like branches in the wind
or how his shoulders hunched over like a good game of jenga
or how the curve from his chest to his torso was as steep as a hill
or that when I found the bruises on his stomach,
they were like ink splotches all over a beautiful poem.

They left out that his dad hit him like a train
or that his mom lived in the house like it was a bar
or that it would hurt like 16 bee stings
when I saw a line of 16 scars on his left bicep
or that the gasps in between his cries would sound like drowning
or that his eyes can ombre to be as red as an egyptian sunset.

They never warned me that he would come crashing down like an avalanche
or how his constant expression depicted a shattered stain glass window-
every piece beautiful but still apart.

They could've said that reading the headline
"local boy commits suicide"
would numb me like paralysis
or that hearing his last words would echo in my head like screaming in a cave
or that his funeral I would say
"loosing him was like an overcast of rain"
except I lied,
because losing him was like a flood
and that his grave stood out like a redwood tree carved of stone
or how his dad looked at his own hands like looking at maggots.

Love poems never said that I would miss him like being homesick
or that the drive to the cemetery would feel like skyrocketing to the moon
or that I would refuse to play jenga with my little cousins
or how I would hate hanging my clothes without seeing his smile.

The amount of similies in love poems are ridiculous.
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