a/n: this one took hella days to write, and was fairly forced, so i don't like it, but it brings up something i've been thinking about a lot lately (if not cutting is a good thing if i still want to every hour of every day), so i'm posting it anyway.


the summer before tenth grade i feel hopelessly in love

but didn't realise it until two months later

when it was already too late.

the clouds are 2d today.

like a globe

or a model train set

or my dreams.

i've begun to think in poetry,

memories forming themselves into words,

thoughts forming the first few lines of a poem i will never write.

or maybe i will.

sometimes, i forget that writing, for me,

used to be something i did to imagine things,

avoiding doing them.

now, writing is also a way to deal with things i've done.

things i wish i'd done.

things i think about and dream of.

this poem has been sitting here


well, since wednesday or so, and i wonder if

i've been writing too much.

maybe i should stop writing,

save it for

those good ideas i used to get.

maybe my thoughts should just be

my thoughts,

nothing more and nothing less.

maybe i should not share

my thoughts

with the world.

'but i don't!'

screams the voice. and

i really don't.

i wonder if i should stop writing

and then remember what would happen

if i did.

because before i wrote every day,

i cut every day


my emotions are so deep,

(and i know i'm so


for even thinking this)

and they are so fierce

and unique.

because how can anyone deal

with emotions like this,

without killing themself?

well, i am,

but here i am,

and i'm not cutting

nearly so much anymore,

but everyday, i dream

of picking up that razor,

and leaving.

and even if i don't cut,

is it really anything to celebrate

if i still want to?