Title: Red ink, Silver pen. It starts with the itch, a tiny spark Behind the eye, inside the dark. A need to feel, to ground the drift, To pull the anchor from the rift Between the head and the beating heart, To tear the gentle fabric apart. The razor glints, a silver tongue, Ready to sing a sharp, cold song. 'Pinprick first,' the mind commands, To break the static, break the bands Of worry coiling round the chest, To put the anxious beast to rest. A red line blooms, a bright, hot bead, Proof that you are still indeed Alive enough to feel the sting, To know that you are still, still, a thing. But then the gray, the heavy stone, The feeling that you’re all alone Inside a skull that’s far too small, Too loud, too quiet, too much, too all. The sadness is a tide that rises, Ignoring all your quiet cries. It drowns the light, it steals the air, It leaves you with nothing but despair. And in that void, the skin is all That answers when the silence calls. So you cvt to feel the boundary, To mark the time, to break the tyranny Of thoughts that loop and spin and bite, Of shadows stretching in the night. Each scar is a story, a map of pain, A record of the wind and rain That battered down the walls you built, The fragile, trembling, soft-spilt guilt Of being too much, or not enough, Of loving the damage, loving the rough Texture of life, even when it hurts, Even when the mind begins to slurt Its secrets out, unbidden, raw, A silent, bleeding, solitary law. Now the arms and thighs are canvases of ghosts, Of the battles fought and the losses lost. Faded pink, silvery white, Scar tissue glowing in the light Of memory, of that night, that hour, that minute, that second When the anxiety screamed its power And sadness held the floor so tight, You had to make the pain take flight. To send it out, through the blade, through the bl00d, Through the rising, terrifying flood Of feeling something, anything, Instead of the void, the endless, empty thing. Proof that you’re real. Before the numbness closes in, And drags you back to the silent hell Of feeling nothing, of feeling well.
ik its bad, im not the best writer. One of my longer poems.
