Poems

The Blade Knows My Name

The blade doesn’t judge me—

It listens when no one else will,

Cuts through the noise in my mind,

And carves out a silence that almost feels real.

I watch the blood rise like a confession,

A truth I can’t speak out loud.

It pools and whispers secrets I keep,

Too ashamed, too broken, too proud.

Everyone says I’m strong,

But they don’t see me at war with myself.

I laugh when I’m meant to,

While my heart gathers dust on a forgotten shelf.

I keep it hidden—the bruises, the scars,

The pain dressed in long sleeves and smiles.

But at night, I wonder if they’d notice

If I didn’t show up after a while.

And when it’s over, the shame hits so big—

A weight so heavy it could break me.

I feel God watching from somewhere far,

His silence sharper than any blade.

Disgust crawls under my skin,

An ache worse than the sting of the cuts I made.

Why can’t I stop? Why do I fail?

When I know He made me for more than this?

But the mirror doesn’t see His light in me—

Just the shadow of the choices I missed.

I can’t explain this battle inside:

How the girl in the mirror looks back with disdain.

I want to be better, to love her again,

But the blade keeps calling my name.

It feels like control, like I’m alive,

For one fleeting moment, I breathe.

But when the sting fades, I’m left alone,

With wounds that never truly leave.

I don’t want to stay here forever,

I’m just lost, caught in a storm of my own.

And I hope one day I’ll find my way back home —

To God, to love, to a place I can call home.

What They Don’t See.

The blade doesn’t judge me—

It listens when no one else will.

It carves through the chaos in my head,

And whispers truths too raw to spill.

I’ve traced its edge for love, for guilt,

For reasons I can’t even explain.

Each cut a story, a plea, a scream,

A way to silence my own shame.

Sometimes it’s punishment—

For not being enough,

For being too much,

For the body I wear and the weight of my flaws.

Sometimes it’s proof that I can still feel,

That the numbness hasn’t won it at all.

And sometimes it’s for love,

For the way I give too much of myself,

Pour everything out and still feel empty like a drum,

Noise on the surface, but the heart stays numb.

The blade doesn’t take for what it reminds me of,

I’m like a glass of rhum, poured out, yet never enough.

But when the blood dries, I feel Him watching—

God, the Creator, the Giver of life.

I wonder if His heart breaks as I break mine,

If He feels the sting of my strife.

I see disgust in the way my soul flinches,

A shame I cannot explain away.

How could I betray the body He gave me,

This temple I desecrate every day?

They see the laid edges, the soft curves,

The pressed smiles and careful lines.

But they don’t see the ache beneath,

The longing to love this skin that feels like a stranger’s,

To shape something more,

To be something more.

It’s not just pain—it’s escape.

From the heat of their stares,

From the mirror’s judgment,

From a love I never quite return to myself.

The blade calls softly, like a lullaby,

Like a friend I swore I’d leave behind.

But deep down, I know—

It isn’t love. It’s a lie.

And I can’t let it define me.

I’m still here, scars and all,

Learning to choose myself even when it hurts.

To bleed for something greater than the silence,

To find the courage to love what the blade

Could never give me.

And maybe, one day, to see myself through His eyes—

Not as broken, but as whole.

— poohtart.