Ripped Jeans a poem by the holes in my heart tw: self harm
I’d rather die
then feel the way I feel inside.
If I am dirt then they are water
Their words that seep through the cracks
I’ve been broken so many times
that there are no pieces left to find.
At night the darkness becomes my ocean,
tears filling my little sea of pain.
Sometimes I wonder if I might drown here
In my lake of loneliness
Would they notice? Do they care?
Would they know their words were the knives that carved my grave?
Do they see behind the fake smiles? The nervous laughter?
Will they ever look close enough?
When I cut that pain out,
leave a hole of loneliness
Do they care if they fill my wounds with bullets?
How would they know?
They could never know.
To know each punch is a crack to my delicate fences.
That every stare feels like a taunt to jump from the gates.
They must never know if I ache to burn off my flesh,
Scrape their words away and let the pieces rot beneath the sun.
They would laugh.
Point and scream and shout.
Stare at my scars.
At the marks they made.
But they’ll never get the chance.
It’s already spoiled
I was never perfect,
Now I never will be.
Because I’m like ripped jeans,
I come pre-ruined.
