I don’t want to go to the lake

It’s too cold
I don’t have a swimsuit
I haven’t been eating well
I don’t like swimming
I don’t like being outside
I just don’t want to

These are all my excuses
But in reality...

I don’t want to have to tell you
There are dark, fresh scars on my thigh
On my wrist as well
I don’t want you to worry
I don’t want to have to explain

there is a monster in my closet, she speaks with two mouths and keeps dents on her wrists and feet.
The monster is terrifying, she uses needle teeth to tear through the skin of lovers. Her eyes brim with tears made from glass.
And sometimes The monster gets really really sad......
The monster uses her needles and blades to rip tears of copper into snow white skin and she whispers her sweet nothings into her closet full of sin.
Now my carpet is stained with copper and static, I can't walk in my closet or The monster goes manic.

I wear a sweater no
matter the weather

It keeps me warm
and hides my shame

Sometimes I forget
what my arms look like,
but every time I try to look

I see only the scars that has
slowly healed but never faded,
and I am reminded of my pain

And so I wear a sweater no
matter how hot the weather

tw self harm



Her skin burns
In the places she once held the blade
She knows she doesn’t need it
But curiosity and recollection
They tempt her
To fall once again
To relapse again
To cut herself again...

She sees the paths ahead of her
She sees addiction
She sees recovery
To cut again would be easy
Already she has supplies
But the momentum of healing
She doesn’t want to lose it
So hard she’s labored for it
So I suppose
For now
She’ll labor on

crouching for shelter
from pattering rain, I sat -
before cutting him.

Millay Has Her Way with a Vassar Professor
by Michael R. Burch

After a night of hard drinking and spreading her legs,
Millay hits the dorm, where the Vassar don begs:
“Please act more chastely, more discretely, more seemly!”
(His name, let’s assume, was, er ... Percival Queemly.)

“Expel me! Expel me!”—She flashes her eyes.
“Oh! Please! No! I couldn’t! That wouldn’t be wise,
for a great banished Shelley would tarnish my name ...
Eek! My game will be lame if I can’t milque your fame!”

“Continue to live here—carouse as you please!”
the beleaguered don sighs as he sags to his knees.
Millay grinds her crotch half an inch from his nose:
“I can live in your hellhole, strange man, I suppose ...
but the price is your firstborn, whom I’ll sacrifice to Moloch.”
(Which explains what became of pale Percy’s son, Enoch.)

Originally published by Lucid Rhythms. This poem is based on an account of Edna St. Vincent Millay being confronted by a male Vassar authority about her rogue behavior. However, there is a some poetic license involved, for the sake of humor. It was actually Vassar President Henry Noble MacCracken who mentioned Shelley. Here is his account in a response to a question about Millay cutting classes: "She cut everything. I once called her in and told her, 'I want you to know that you couldn't break any rule that would make me vote for your expulsion. I don't want to have any dead Shelleys on my doorstep, and I don't care what you do.' She went to the window and looked out and she said, 'Well on those terms I think I can continue to live in this hellhole.'" The stuff about Enoch and Moloch is, of course, pure fabrication on my part.
Keywords/Tags: Millay, dead, Shelley, Vassar, dorm, hellhole, drinking, partying, ***, cutting classes

tw self harm



I want to take the blade to my wrist again
I’ve been... I’ve been doing so well...
But something in my heart
In my stomach, in my chest
Something in my mind isn’t right
I really need someone to take care of me
So... I guess this is it...
Taking the blade to my wrist again
Just so I can bandage it
Because I know
No one else will