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Hey Dad, look at me.

Think back and talk to me.

Did I grow up according to plan? 

Do you think I’m wasting my time,

doing things I  wanna do? 

But it hurts when you disapprove all along 

Once on a yellow piece of paper with green lines
       he wrote a poem
And he called it “Chops”
       because that was the name of his dog
And that’s what it was all about
And his teacher gave him an A
       and a gold star
And his mother hung it on the kitchen door
       and read it to his aunts
That was the year Father Tracy
       took all the kids to the zoo
And he let them sing on the bus
And his little sister was born
       with tiny toenails and no hair
And his mother and father kissed a lot
And the girl around the corner sent him a
       Valentine signed with a row of X’s
       and he asked his father what the X’s meant
And his father tucked him in bed at night
And was always there to do it

Once on a piece of white paper with blue lines
       he wrote a poem
And he called it “Autumn”
       because that was the name of the season
And that’s what it was all about
And his teacher gave him an A
       and asked him to write more clearly
And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door
       because of its new paint
And the kids told him
       that Father Tracy smoked cigars
And left the butts on the pews
And sometimes they would burn holes
That was the year his sister got glasses
       with thick lenses and black frames
And the girl around the corner laughed
       when he asked her to go see Santa Claus
And the kids told him why
       his mother and father kissed a lot
And his father never tucked him in bed at night
And his father got mad
       when he cried for him to do it.

Once on a paper torn from his notebook
       he wrote a poem
And he called it “Innocence: A Question”
       because that was the question about his girl
And that’s what it was all about
And his professor gave him an A
       and a strange steady look
And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door
       because he never showed her
That was the year that Father Tracy died
And he forgot how the end
       of the Apostle’s Creed went
And he caught his sister
       making out on the back porch
And his mother and father never kissed
       or even talked
And the girl around the corner
       wore too much makeup
That made him cough when he kissed her
       but he kissed her anyway
       because that was the thing to do
And at three A.M. he tucked himself into bed
       his father snoring loudly

That’s why on the back of a brown paper bag
        he tried another poem
And he called it “Absolutely Nothing”
Because that’s what it was really all about
And he gave himself an A
and a slash on each damned wrist
And he hung it on the bathroom door
       because this time he didn’t think
       he could reach the kitchen.

My therapist says it’s “severe social anxiety,”

But i think i’m just intelligent enough to realize that the face of society is so horrifyingly ugly.

Sitting on her bed

with a blade pressed against her skin,

Looking at her scars and counting months,

She thinks

Is it worth it?

No, it isn’t.

She knows it isn’t.

But the blade insists;

It leaves a small and thin,

shallow and innocent cut.

it feels so sharp,

Yet so relieving.

So it calls for another,

Then another,

and another,

Then small and thin

Turn to big and deep,

Shallow and innocent

Turn to bloody and reckless

Before you know it

There’s blood streaming down

Her butchered thighs

And the feeling of guilt

Drips down her arm

in a crimson, red fashion

She feels disappointed in herself

But still satisfied as hell

And she wonders why she ever stopped in the first place.

Answer:

Wow anonymous-not-Nick tumblr user, I couldn’t have said it better myself

silhouettes-of-my-soul:

It has to leave a physical mark and it has to stay for at least a week or it’s not self harm. If you snap a rubber band to your wrist, it’s not self harm. If you don’t use a blade, it’s not self-harm. If you’re not physically bringing a blade across your skin, it’s not self harm. If you don’t…