She is November



Originally posted on Abandons:

She is November, 

her hair a soft auburn of 

colors that frame her face
Van Gogh had created her,
 glides across landscapes and tries

to paint her heart with warm colors. 

She is November, 

in her footsteps that will soon

be covered with fallen leaves and

forgotten in a matter of time,
her eyes look like the sky on a

crisp, starry night.

She is November, 

constantly being looked over

and walked over, as people await

and excite over her best friend, December. 

So she sighs, and she falls, quietly onto

the pavement of her childhood road,

she was dying, but god,

she was beautiful.

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scraped knees and broken bones

they say that pain
is only in your mind.
when my feet hurt
from wondering through life,
tip-toeing on broken glass,
my mother tells me to
pinch my arm,
it will distract me from
the blood stain that my foot left.

when I was stabbed in the back,
the knife lunged me forward,
breaking me down to hands and knees.

when I first skinned my knee
running around the playground,
my teacher told me to be more careful.
my mothers words reflected in hers.

I pinched my arm.

I broke my arm when I was little.
my mother was terrified,
but I was just staring at my arm,
the blood om my wrist,
the bone escaping my skin.

I pinched my thigh.

when the pinching wasnt enough,
I turned to the mental aspect of pain.
if I diatract my brain,
my aching heart will go away.

I finished a bottle of liquor.

but when that wasnt enough,
I flashed to the day I broke my arm.
I was so fasinated with the blood.

I slit my wrist.

numb lust

It’s not a good feeling
when you are aware of every limb,
every muscle,
every flinch,
and vein
in your body.

when all you want is to be numb,
blissfully ignorant
to all the shit in the world.
to not worry about anything,
to not think about anything,
to not feel anything at all.


your body shakes
with each pump of your heart.
pushing what must be diseased blood,
considering what it has been doing to you.

Self awareness is not a good thing.
stopping to stare at nothing,
trying not to think about anything,
to keep the tears back.

you need to get this blood out of your system.

one small cut,
two small cuts,
four small cuts.

one long cut,
two long cuts,
four long cuts.

one deep cut,
two deep cuts,
four deep cuts.

four shallow breaths,
two shallow breaths,
one deep breath.

and you’ve used up
the rest of your air to breathe.

To my friend, Emily.

you are my lighthouse,
after a long and tiresome day,
to come to shore and not worry
about the waves pushing my ship over.

you are my sunshine,
to my flower,
vital for survival.

though I was fine before I met you,
I won’t be if you left.

let me be your lighthouse,
calling you to shore.
and your sunshine,
bathing you in warmth.


your words pry my eyes open at 4am.
they push the finger down my throat after every meal.
tips the bottle of pills into my mouth.
they pick at my skin,
they are etched on my thighs.

sticks and stones may break my bones,
but words will make me do that myself.