I've wanted to die. Needed to cry.
Little boy: Are you an Angel? ...
She was surprised.
I could scream, but it wouldn’t be enough.
I hate it when people see my scars. I can feel their judgement.
Grandma's flower shop. Once it was a grocery store. A story poem close to my heart. True story set in the decades past.
With a truth about the power of the vase. And a struggle for survival.
Why do we cut ourselves? A simple question.
A complex answer.
My scars are like the stars. Too many to count.
I like to cut myself. It’s f****d up, I know, but I get a perverse pleasure from it.
A short poem about facing a craving.
Love keeps me from cutting.
I cannot sleep. I wish I could weep.
No scars to hide. It's nice not to have to tell my wife,
that I did it again.
It is there, within the blackness.
I always share my scars with you, so that you do not feel it too.
There's a desire to cut. A despair about death.
My “childhood story” and accepting the skeletons in the closet.
I am hurting so much inside, and I don’t understand why.
I would like to cry, but I can’t, and I don't know why.