Is life ever really still?

Ended up hurting myself again. At one point, I went at least a year without hurting myself, but now it’s becoming more and more frequent again. I dont know if it’s just because I don’t care?

The feeling of my cuts chafing against my jeans is comforting and familiar. I don’t even know why I cut anymore. Sure, I was frustrated and upset, but I’m educated enough by this point to know that cutting can be about control, or the endorphins that are released, but I don’t think it’s about any of those things anymore. I feel like I do it just because I like it and because I’m used to it.  It doesn’t have any real meaning. I like to think I have a pretty high level of self-awareness, but I have no idea what kind of person that makes me. A masochist? Maybe, but that’s just me trying to label and compartementalize myself.

 

Anyway, since I talk so much about writing poetry, but never share any on here, I’ll post a short little piece from a few weeks ago. It’s based on a still-life of some flowers by Rachel Ruysch. I’d be more specific and tell you which one, but apparently she did a lot of fucking still-lifes of flowers, so I honestly have no idea which one it was. I’ve been staring at this poem for weeks and I’ve changed the ending countless times and I still am not thrilled with it, but here ya go anyway:

 

 

In a garden,
Everyone notices the bright, beautiful buds
Ostentatious and loud
No one pays attention to the ones
that are wilting and dying
From a lack of sunlight,
Too crowded in such a small space.
As long as the majority is thriving,
The others are overlooked.
They were like you once,
The center of attention,
But over time,
With age,
They became part of the background,
Setting the stage,
For bigger
(Better?)
Things.

 

It’s definitely nothing special, but it’s not bad for being thought up in less than five minutes (we had to write based on a prompt in our first creative writing class.)

 

 

 

 

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