Stars...

I pray thee guide me safely

through this
night

I cannot say I love you
as sweetly
as the rain tells the flowers

nor can I caress you
as softly
as the breeze does the flowers

I cannot warm you
as the sun warms the flowers

nor cradle you as tightly
as the soil does the flowers

but I can nurture our love
as tenderly as I do my flowers

for no flower in my garden
is as beautiful as you

Love.
Love what?
Their touch ?
Their scent?
The way they smile?
Their laugh?
How they sleep?
Their laughter?
Their tears?
Their weakness?
Their strength?
Or simply
Love them

Look at the scars
intricate artwork
whispering stories in serpentine patterns
they cannot be rewritten
but they can scream for eternity
tracing patterns across a body
invisible or prominent
open them up
read their book
smother in the lines
of scars that never fade
burning hot

Ensuring eminent destruction
a curse, love for depression
why else

Stop cutting.

I get it, life hurts.

You want to feel, something.

You would rather watch your own blood seep out of your body from a self inflicted wound, than experience the hurt you have inside.

I get it. Stop cutting.

You choose to hurt yourself because you are overwhelmed by the pain you have caused another person, even if it was unintentional. The thought of that person whom you have such strong feelings for, suffering because of your actions or in-actions, is almost unbearable.

I get it. Stop cutting.

You don't know what to make of your situation. You don't know how a person like you could end up in such a ****** up scene. You feel stuck, lost.

I get it. I do.
Stop cutting.

Your parents ****. They don't understand the kind of **** you are going through. Sure they were kids once but that was different. Things were different back then. They don't get you and they probably never will. They don't care.

I get it. Stop cutting.

You really want to hurt yourself because you get off on the pain. You want it. You need it. You deserve it. You were put on this earth to suffer and you accept your role as martyr.

I get it. Truly, I do.
Stop cutting.

You need some sort of release. Something, anything. Anything but the consuming black,
nothing. The sweet release that only a razor can provide is the only thing that seems real to you amidst all of the drama.

I get it.
Stop cutting.



There is chaos in your life and the secret solitude provided by your ritual seems like an oasis.

I get it. Stop cutting.

You like the way your skin splits open.  You like the way you can touch the cuts underneath your clothes. You like the way the scars remind you.

I get it.
Stop cutting.

The love of your life has abandoned you, leaving a void that nobody will ever fill. Ever.
You are completely and utterly alone.

Life *****.

I get it.

You however, are beautiful,
inside and out,
scars and everything,
and you are not as alone as you think.


Please,
Please,
Please,
Stop cutting.