Tag Archives: relapse

accidental relapse

so trigger me

make me weak

scars on skin

make me seek

so trigger me

i know i’m weak

but is that all

you want to risk?

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metal & skin (xiii.)

am i really that ready

to bleed out once more?

to have lines on my body

to continue keeping score?

am i really so ready again

to taste the love of a pain?

and if i find myself gasping

will that make it all remain?

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Filed under Poetry

deep cut

I’m relapsing down again

There’s desperation everywhere

And it’s fucking contagious

It’s just another one of those days

Where I’m sinking in misery

And suffocating in my own self-pity

For no rational reason at all

That it’s almost pathetic

It is fucking pathetic.

I’m feeling the need badly

To colour my world with carmine

And murder my twisted veins

But I can’t, I shouldn’t—

I thought I called a ceasefire

But it’s burning in my heart

Tearing apart my mind with screams

And making my senses recede

Into senselessness that ironically

I can cancel out with one

Silver glint and a single slash

But I won’t, I musn’t—

And yet I really fucking should.

The crave is almost unbearable

I can’t resist falling in from the sin

Please pray, please understand

I need the pain to breathe

My lungs refuse to provide oxygen

I need this pain to live

I really don’t want to…

But I have to.

Please don’t let me touch the blade

Please don’t let my skin touch the blade

Please don’t let me…

D o n ‘ t . . .

I’m sorry.

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Withdrawals

I’m suffering

From lost actions

And drowning in

Failed distractions

.

In cold drip sweat

And lethargy

With painful lust

Tongue quavery

.

It’s like a drug

Placebo pills

And life’s a drag

Too close to kill

.

Even worse than

Cigarettes on

Alcohol and

Medications

.

Unsettled nerves

Sinking feelings

Rising up bile

Tastes sickening

.

Incoherence

Mumbles of black

I can’t do it

Let me go back

.

I’m fucking great

Just losing sense

Trapped withdrawals

From your absence.

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Truancy

i’m relapsing

back to the old habits

that got me rife,

kicked out and

expelled gracelessly

out of a good life.

old habits die

hard, but i’ll die

even fucking harder

so please push the

air out of my lungs

and fill it with water.

it’s truancy and blades

and blood-red ink,

it’s guilt over music

screaming internally

so i won’t have to think.

it’s brooding in bookshelves

scribbling on paper

and drowning in books,

falling out of reality and

hiding under the tables like

a broken broke crook.

it’s beating and seething

and semantically cheating

in the classless class,

it’s skipping on responsibility

and regretting, and my

conscience now tastes crass.

i attempt to assure, and

i say it’ll be fine, it’s only

for half of a wasted day,

screw it, i’ll be fucking okay

even though i know i

won’t be anyhow anyway.

i’m relapsing, i’m collapsing

i’m the suspect confessing

my criminal records curt,

so don’t try to pull me out

of the wreckage, you know

in the debris, you’ll just get hurt.

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letters to s.d.: fragment #6 {promise}

darling, you[REDACTED] be [REDACTED]ay

.

i’m sorry.

i didn’t mean to.

what have i done.

i won’t think about it.

i won’t do it again.

for you, i’ll try.

not to die.

.

fuck fuck fuck fuck i’m d[REDACTED].

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Ipse Dixit

You’re begging for the impossible. You plead the fifth and proclaim it’s the inevitable, but I am as solid as the philosopher’s stone circumscribed within the third chamber of my arcane comatose heart. A paralysed blood flow. A coronary heartbeat. The monitor sinks into an eclectic deadline. You perceived the evidence, assimilated the apnoea, penultimately confirmed the apoplexy with an exorbitant sigh and a commiserating disposition. Castigate my otiose conniption if you must, but it wouldn’t make any goddamned difference if I’m a cello strung across a rainbow crossing in the welkin of the Valhalla or a bagpipe resting against a river of magma and hellfire in the very eviscerating core of the earth. It is but an expendable prestidigitation, smoke and mirrors reflecting spectres in the illusion, so why abjure? He himself said it. It is a moot point in a Van Allen Hyperion. For if the very man Himself cannot prosecute it, then let it occur to your benighted follies that your playing God cannot save me. Don’t make me go back. I won’t do it. I won’t.

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Filed under Prose

A Borderline’s Chants

Whose raindrops are

Falling on my cheeks

When I’m indoors now?

Not mine, no not mine

.

Whose saline tears are

Dripping down from my

Eyes, when mine are dry?

I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine

.

Whose rubious liquid is

Staining the pillowcase

When sunset triumphs?

Play nice, nice, nice, nice

.

Whose aqua vitae ebbs

Away from life and onto

The affinity of the scars?

Lies. Lies. Lies. Lies. Lies.

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Filed under Poetry