My newest (and probably my best) spoken word piece. Music is "The Winter" by Balmorhea. Transcript below! 

~~~~~

In autumn, 
when the leaves where falling 
and making little beds on the ground for the rain to rest 
I put a blade to my arm to see the way I bled. 

It started out shallow, 
little red dots peeking through the cracks in my skin, 
thanking me for setting them free.  
Soon those red dots turned into a river, 
one that I ran along the side of, 
cheering it on, as if I was in control of it’s flow. 
One of the last time’s I cut myself was in the shower --

I was beginning to go deep enough that I could lather up my ligaments and wash them clean. 
But something different happened this time;
as I watched that river of red turn into an ocean at my feet
my breathing was cut short by a wince and suddenly
my world became warped. 
my limbs turned to lead 
and my grip on the grout that lined that grave failed me.

I don’t know how long it was before I woke up. 
I just know that I had to crawl to the corner for comfort 
as the walls continued to convulse and concave around me 
while I was caving in on myself wondering why, 
why my cure could no longer calm me.

It was twenty minutes before I could stand again 
and thirty before I could stumble from the shower stall. 

After that I kept my arms covered. Treating cardigans like the cover of a diary
but on Christmas Eve…I wasn’t cautious enough. 
My stepmother saw my scars 
and wrote on them the story of how the middle sister screwed up once more 
my father stared at me like I was a stranger
and my mom asked me why I would put a blade 
to the baby soft skin she used to kiss during bath time – 

quickly after she asked me when they would fade. 

I said “I dunno mom, 
maybe when you stop smoking.” 

And laughed

She didn’t find it that funny. 

That was the first time I realized that the puckered lipstick stains 
from my flirtation with razorblades would not fall away;
that all attempts to rub them off and make my skin pure again were futile.

Society looks at the scars of survivors of war and calls them warriors 
but when they are tarnishing the flesh of a teenager we call them cutters. 
Our names fall away, lost in the trenches of the times we have fought battles, 
battles that are written on our bones. 
Our personality is automatically assumed to be made up of pills 
and our destinies are nothing more than depression.

No.

I am more than the marks on me. 
I go deeper than a diagnosis. 
I’m not saying that I’m proud of my blood laden past; 
there are times when I look at these scars and feel sick 
but I should not be held back from letting my skin soak up the sun 
no matter how many scientists warn me that I’m still too sensitive. 


I have come to realize that the better way to let my flesh be free 
is by letting fresh air dig into it instead of metal 
so go ahead, 
stare. 
Ask me my tale, 
I might even tell you the truth. 
But if I tell you I was attacked by shrubs you should know
it’s my right to do so 
just like it is mans right to bear arms
it is my right to bear my arms 
and you are not allowed to look at me and spit the word
“liar” at my feet

It took me four months to realize that my blemishes 
were not something that should make others blind to my beauty 
that just because I wore my pain on my pale skin it did not mean 
that I was asking for pity

Before you make accusations know that there are ancients
That used to carve lines into rocks and live by them
My skin is a story to be told
Not just a mass of self-inflicted scars and sadness

I have known joy. 

I have cried over carnations given to me after concerts

And yeah that one time when I went white water rafting 
I fell out of the boat
But I managed to climb from the current before it pulled me under
Trust me when I tell you
You haven’t been baptized until you have spewed half the Hudson from your lungs --
My stars…
It was like being reborn


I am as beautiful as I was when I was a baby 
and I have gotten so much better. 

I no longer sleep with sharp edges beneath my blankets, 
so before you pretend that I am porcelain 
know that if you do –
I’ll break into pieces. 
In spring –

In spring the snow melted from my skin
And left rust in its wake
I did not try to cut it out this time

I let it show.

Seasons

This semester at school I poured a lot of myself into other people and kind of forgot to love myself as well, so this is a piece about finding myself again andddd yeah! Music is Balmorhea's "November 1, 1832", coverart is by Maykel Lima. Words are below the cut.

*****

I found myself among the ashes of those
whom I had tried so hard to pour my heart into
that I had lost it along the way.
It dripped from the cracks in my fingers
puddles leading to
where I lay now
whiskey bottle in one hand 
a razor in the other
staring at the sky whispering
‘why why why can’t I be loved
why will no one kiss the lonely from my lips 
why will no one
wrap their arms around me so this 
unraveling will end
run their fingers through my hair 
entwine it with
I love you I love you I love you’
‘Baby baby baby’
I said, kneeling in the ruins
like how I used to
pray every day to a god
I never believed in 
the shrapnel of pews
embedded in my skin 
kneeling next to this 
hollow self
this broken thing
I scooped myself up
like a bride and hell
with how pale my skin was
I might as well have been
‘Where are we going, let me go let me go 
let me rot here please misery told me
I’m his favorite company’
These protests fell from my lips but I
wrapped my arms tighter around myself
whispered ‘no no no baby no
trust me the misery man and I 
were lovers once, sweetheart, he
said the same thing, baby, he
left in the middle of the night
with all my love it took me
so long to get it back baby
I won’t let it happen to you
I won’t let it happen to you.’ 
This is how I love myself again 
this is how I
cross the threshold and 
laid my mind to rest. 
I threw a blanket over my 
broken body
I knitted it myself love
used our siblings sweetness as the yarn
While we slept I went around the house
and plastered over all the anger
they were embedded into our walls like 
braille we would run our hands over
so we could read up on
how to feel alive
By the way, babe, 
I burned all the dreamcatchers
all those nightmares 
were hanging over us like a shadow
like a shroud placed over our shoulders in our slumber
weighing us down 
more than we could have ever imagined
When I awoke I took a two hour bath
in which I washed my insecurities down the drain again
sent them out to sea and let the
salt water swallow them
I flushed my pills down after,
baby, we were using them as poison
there’s no place for them here
not anymore
I buried our blades in the back yard,
left them to the elements to erode
looked at my nephew and explained 
‘nothing will grow here’
because pain, baby boy, pain
is not romantic
it will not allow roses to bloom, 
pain is just survival, sweetheart
that’s all it is.
It’s the grass growing back every summer
no matter how much snow has fallen
Not before long the nights
with my forehead pressed against a mirror
staring down every flaw 
and comparing them to flowers
staring down every
speckle and stretchmark and scar
all while saying
‘beautiful beautiful beautiful’
until they blossomed
This is my love poem, 
this is a sonnet to myself;
broken records 
singing my favorite stanza over and over
‘Love, love, love…’
left on repeat
lulling me to sleep as I hold myself
not because I’m lonely darling
but because tonight 
I’m the only company I need

Love On Repeat

My names Kailah and I write poetry that's mostly sad and mainly made to be spoken in front of a lot of people so they all know about my many feelings. Other than that I'm 19 and a student at SUNY Potsdam. I major in both Creative Writing and Graphic Design. I'm an aspiring and slightly confused human being. 

Kailah Ann Hurst