I am doing what I do best these days

I am living inside my head

Alone in the early hours

Listening to music that breaks my heart

Over and over again

It is easy to set Spotify

To repeat play the songs that do

The most damage


I am feeding the longing

Feeding the ache

Adding old newspaper and dry wood

To the cast iron stove

Where my pain and isolation smolder

Hurting, always hurting

But seemingly unable to stop myself


I recognize that this is a form

Of psychic self-harm

Of emotional self-mutilation

The music becomes invisible fingernails

That pick at my scabs

My brutal self-talk

Sharpens into knives

That slice my self-esteem, my self-worth

Into tattered ribbons


I am an expert

At drawing blood

From myself

It beads up gently on the surface at first

Before starting to drip

Before starting to pool

Before starting to stream


The secret shame is not that I do this at all

The secret shame is that it is oddly comforting

Familiar, like welcoming an old friend

Who I love dearly

But know is a terrible influence on me

And always stays too long

Because at least when I feel this pain

I am feeling something

And I must be alive

I must be real


And so I bleed


  1. Both i think, for me. Sometimes I choose it so I can remember what I lost… I guess, remenisce. Other times it just strikes and will drive my mood… rabbit hole, etc.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. So Beautiful. I used to judge myself for enjoying emotional pain and then one day I realized that feelings like pain, sorrow, and anger are like great spices for flavoring life. Cinnamon makes things taste wonderful but you can’t eat a whole spoonful of it and you can’t live on it either. But you can enjoy it deeply as a spice πŸ™‚ Thank you for reminding me of this with your beautiful words ❀

    Liked by 1 person

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