Sick of myself

Tears gush like they never did before
Dams of sadness bursting and pouring in torrents down my face
Suddenly, it all stops. Again, I feel divided from my feelings
They tumble and roar within me, but I'm restricted from letting
them emerge
Bound from expressing how I feel on the inside
I try to show it on my skin
Sharp quick slashes with the razor
Retracing the blade - deeper and deeper
Now it's blood I'm crying
Screaming to the world, Fuck you! I'm not ok!
The etchings on my forearm, the slices on my legs
They all cry, Help me
My eyes remain dry...

It's hard not to be haunted by our past. Our history is what
shapes us... what guides us. But at some point, it's what makes us
fail...fall
There are 2 kind of wounds.
The new ones, witch are horribly painful.
And the old ones, that should've healed years ago but never did.
Most of our wounds heal. But some of them don't.
Some wounds we carry with us everywhere and though the cut's
long gone, the pain still lingers.

Orchidée noire