What Writer in Their "Right" Mind ...
Poetic Cutter Girl & Dark-Souled Poet Boy
I’m Bipolar, you know. I cut my wrist with a razorblade and it’s oh-so-poetic. And I write poetry. Deep, dark poetry that’s black like the emptiness of my soul. My blood is beautiful and my poems are deep and moving. I’m this depressed Bipolar poetic cutter girl. But I’m not emo. So not emo.
And I do drugs. Did I mention that I do drugs? Hardcore people do drugs, so I guess I’m some hardcore depressed Bipolar poetic cutter drug-addicted girl. I do heroin. I keep it in a little jar inside my dresser. It says ‘heroin’ because I’m a stupid fuck who uses green sharpie markers to display the drugs I’m doing. Or maybe the author’s just a dumbfuck. I never know what the bitch is thinking.
I like to have sex. But I only have sex with my one-true-love or some fucking dick who uses me for sex. Then I cut and do drugs, like the jar marked heroin in my dresser. I’m waiting for my dark-souled poet boy to come rescue me from my deep dark prison that is painted black like the depths of my withering soul.
But until that time comes I’m going to continue to cut my wrists up with a razorblade, because anything else is just for fucking poser cutters, man. I’m going to write my poetry about the vast emptiness of my life and the painfulness of waiting for my dark-souled poet boy. I’m going to kill myself in my dungeon prison if he doesn’t arrive soon. I’m going to die outside as well as inside because my soul is already dead. Only my dark-souled poet boy can save me.
And then one day, he arrives. I’m writing deep dark poetry in a black notebook with a skull on the front. He sees the scars on my wrist and sits down beside me and shows me his. Oh, I knew he was the one. My dark-souled poet boy is a kindred spirit, a fellow cutter. I better he does heroin in a bottle marked with a green sharpie, too. I bet he got raped and it made him all scared inside and now he writes poetry in a black notebook with art he drew on the inside cover.
I know my dark-souled poet boy is my soulmate even though we’ve only known each other for five minutes. Our black hearts magically connect and I can see deep into his deep dark abyss of a soul, tarnished and burnt by the pain of the rape ordeal I know he must have gone through. No dark-souled poet boy is without a rape in his past.
Just like no Bipolar drug-addicted girl hasn’t grown up in a broken home. My parents divorced when I was five and we’re broke, but I still have enough money to shop at Hot Topic, get an iPod, and buy whatever drugs I need. But I’m still a Bipolar drug-addicted poetic depressed cutter girl, so fucking pity me and my dark-souled poet boy.
He says his name is Gerard and it is oh-so fitting. What dark-souled poet boy wouldn’t have a name like that. A name that tumbles from my purple lips as if it were always meant to be there. I tell him I love him and he looks deep into my pain-filled eyes. “I have been waiting for you my entire life. You are the reason I haven’t killed myself. I knew one day I would meet you. You are the dark-souled poet girl of my dreams.”
And I knew it’s true. I know that the heroin will course through both our veins, coming from a jar labeled with green sharpie marker. We will share razor blades and eventually, one day, if the world doesn’t accept us . . . we will commit suicide like Romeo and Juliet, only much darker.
Because that’s how Bipolar drug-addicted cutter girl’s and dark-souled boys who have been raped fall in love.
And I do drugs. Did I mention that I do drugs? Hardcore people do drugs, so I guess I’m some hardcore depressed Bipolar poetic cutter drug-addicted girl. I do heroin. I keep it in a little jar inside my dresser. It says ‘heroin’ because I’m a stupid fuck who uses green sharpie markers to display the drugs I’m doing. Or maybe the author’s just a dumbfuck. I never know what the bitch is thinking.
I like to have sex. But I only have sex with my one-true-love or some fucking dick who uses me for sex. Then I cut and do drugs, like the jar marked heroin in my dresser. I’m waiting for my dark-souled poet boy to come rescue me from my deep dark prison that is painted black like the depths of my withering soul.
But until that time comes I’m going to continue to cut my wrists up with a razorblade, because anything else is just for fucking poser cutters, man. I’m going to write my poetry about the vast emptiness of my life and the painfulness of waiting for my dark-souled poet boy. I’m going to kill myself in my dungeon prison if he doesn’t arrive soon. I’m going to die outside as well as inside because my soul is already dead. Only my dark-souled poet boy can save me.
And then one day, he arrives. I’m writing deep dark poetry in a black notebook with a skull on the front. He sees the scars on my wrist and sits down beside me and shows me his. Oh, I knew he was the one. My dark-souled poet boy is a kindred spirit, a fellow cutter. I better he does heroin in a bottle marked with a green sharpie, too. I bet he got raped and it made him all scared inside and now he writes poetry in a black notebook with art he drew on the inside cover.
I know my dark-souled poet boy is my soulmate even though we’ve only known each other for five minutes. Our black hearts magically connect and I can see deep into his deep dark abyss of a soul, tarnished and burnt by the pain of the rape ordeal I know he must have gone through. No dark-souled poet boy is without a rape in his past.
Just like no Bipolar drug-addicted girl hasn’t grown up in a broken home. My parents divorced when I was five and we’re broke, but I still have enough money to shop at Hot Topic, get an iPod, and buy whatever drugs I need. But I’m still a Bipolar drug-addicted poetic depressed cutter girl, so fucking pity me and my dark-souled poet boy.
He says his name is Gerard and it is oh-so fitting. What dark-souled poet boy wouldn’t have a name like that. A name that tumbles from my purple lips as if it were always meant to be there. I tell him I love him and he looks deep into my pain-filled eyes. “I have been waiting for you my entire life. You are the reason I haven’t killed myself. I knew one day I would meet you. You are the dark-souled poet girl of my dreams.”
And I knew it’s true. I know that the heroin will course through both our veins, coming from a jar labeled with green sharpie marker. We will share razor blades and eventually, one day, if the world doesn’t accept us . . . we will commit suicide like Romeo and Juliet, only much darker.
Because that’s how Bipolar drug-addicted cutter girl’s and dark-souled boys who have been raped fall in love.