"It's not a bad life, just a bad day.”
That's what some say.
But I'm not eating—my stomach is empty.
My arms hurt; it feels like I've been holding up the world.
My wrists bleed from the knife
I use it on myself, Instead of using it to cook, to eat.
My feet are burned, they're blue—
I've been walking on ice, but it helps in some ways.
They're numb, and I can't feel the glass I'm stepping on.
I guess that's okay.
My eyes are tired, red with tears.
My head pounds with yelling. My ears ache from hearing.
Simple jokes turn into subtle insecurities.
Walking around, people's moods became my one certainty.
I want to talk, but I'm too scared—
Keeping things bottled up in my head.
My eyes, held tightly shut,
Too afraid to look in the mirror
And see myself as something unclean.
My wrists—my one punishment.
My arms ache from holding up the world I call a way of living.
It's a bad day, not a bad life.
Crazy what a simple saying can turn into if you turn off the lights.
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Author:
Violet_Writes (
Online) - Published: September 26th, 2025 10:29
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 4
- Users favorite of this poem: Natavia Hobert
Online)
Comments2
This poem speaks of internal pain that can only be expressed through self destructive acts. Sad in nature it is constrictive and dark. Nicely written
This is deep and it really made me think. It made me think of what you meant by the words you used and how you put them. This is really good, definently my favorite one i've seen on here so far. I hope that you're doing okay, even if it is just a bad day.
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