And here's my more triggering stuff! It's mostly suicidal and eating disorder based! With like, a little self harm, I think. It's my website I get to put whatever I want on it. Reader beware. Whatever.

Bleed
because if i didn’t like the body in the first place-
should i care as it breaks?
why should i worry as organs start to shut down,
as every breath feels like i’m going to drown,
i don’t feel as sick when i don’t feed
and i know broken boys don’t bleed

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Dermatillo-mania
if i keep picking i’ll be fixed
fight my own skin and body until i win
where do i put my hands
what do i do if i’m not fixing my face
fixing, i mean touching
today i try to not pick at it at all
a minute passes like an hour
how come this isn’t called addiction

blood covers my hands daily
don’t worry, it’s not self harm
hold on, it’s not-not self harm, though
there’s blood all over my hands regardless
reap what i sow, pick at the scabs
so the face in the mirror looks worse
who says worse doesn’t mean fixed

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I can be a hero
should i kill myself,
it will be to the tune of Heros.
loudly, blasting from the car speakers-
a detail the police will not know,
but i will.

should i kill myself,
my phone will be at zero.
hopefully, my body will be weaker-
less able to resist the final blow,
ready to be killed.

should i kill myself,
i will do so with bravado.
my future will look no bleaker-
I will sit safely below,
knowing it was my will.

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Pretty Pretty Pretty
make me pretty enough to bury
dress me to impress you
make it your burden to carry
dehumanize me through and through

dresses from sixth grade go unworn
find them a new purpose
sew one on my lifeless form
make me the prettiest carcass

cut some fat off my bones
deem all of it worthless
make me fit my smallest clothes
survival for the thinnest

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Proof of Piety
rend me of my girlhood,
wash me clean like a sinner
and allow me to walk pure
following my holy path.
let my bones show just so,
proof of my piety,
of my devotion to becoming
anew. the old fat must
be shed.
i can look better than this.
bloodlet me three times a day,
the lightheadedness
never ending,
just to see how bad i
can find myself getting
just to see if maybe i
can find myself getting
better. the bad blood cycles
still, quietly churning,
keeping me alive and killing
me all the same,
until something finally
strikes a vein.

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Romanticized
like the pretty sweet boys
with their sickly sweet sighs
with their sickly slit thighs
so easy romanticized
by only the most fucked up minds

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Spite
i hope he went quietly and i hope that i go loud
i think the ending must conflict with the beginning-
quietly, and on accident, with hope
loudly, and on purpose, with flair
raised as a baby that didn’t cry a lot,
a kid that didn’t really complain,
a pre-teen that argued but kept the grades and learned real well
i want the end to be screaming
i want to be doing my best and spontaneously combust
i want to burn and burn and burn in front of people
i want to burst into flames so fast that within my ashes you saw not only
your hopes of a happy daughter and
the potential of a happier son
because i know that stars do not shine if they are not burning
and you will not believe the sight of my death
if the background is not gay rock jazz blasting from my car speakers
if i am not mangled to a mess
i am not acting if it is not pissing off my parents in the process

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