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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Dolores I don't fancy myself a Lolita, For I know that Dolores knew. In here 40s temperment, she kept herself quiet.

But she knew. She called it incest- called him a dirty old man- threatened to call the cops.

Dolores knew where she was. She maneuvered in her bounds, Manipulating when all possible, understanding who this was.

I found myself at her age, in love with someone older than i. I found myself victim of a game, I did not know I was playing.

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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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