My War
My War poem stories
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mipoet
mipoet Insomniac
Autoplay OFF   •   7 months ago
A history of my war with self harm.

My War

How in the world did this begin?

How will it end?

What drew me to the knife,

that first time.

I understand the endorphin rush.

The addiction to that.

But that first time.

I didn’t know I’d get high.

Did I hate myself that much?

I think I did.

Sometimes, I still do.

I feel quite the loser.

And so its fitting.

To cut on myself.

But it also makes me feel good.

Crazy that it makes me feel sane.

To bleed.

A trickle, better a stream.

The pleasant sting.

The mental fog.

The emotions melt away.

The overpowering emotions.

The first time, I was young.

I carved on my wrist.

I know that was for attention.

From my parents.

Then for many years,

I did no such thing.

Until I was getting laid off,

from a job I’d hoped,

would be my career.

I was alone, in my moms house.

She and my dad,

were getting a divorce.

My wife was at our home.

But I was there, for work.

Far away from her.

I carved a pattern in my arm.

And some on my leg.

I didn’t know why.

But it made me feel better.

Then I stopped,

for many years,

got a tattoo,

to cover the scar,

and was done,

until the fire,

and the failure,

of me.

I started,

but I don’t remember where,

or when.

When I cut,

I get amnesia.

Honestly.

It blocks the memories.

Same when I get a tattoo.

So I didn’t know how,

but I’d started cutting,

and it was bad.

Very, very bad.

I’ve gotten infections.

I got written up at work for it.

So powerful is that allure,

that I crave it still.

Constantly.

But mostly now.

When sad.

Which I frequently am.

I must resist.

Not a scratch.

It’s so hard.

Too hard.

But I’m trying.

Fighting.

Doing good for a while.

Haven’t cut for a spell.

Here’s hoping,

that even if I lose some battles,

I can still win the war.

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