the day you hurt yourself.

Hello TheTaostedWriter,

I, too, wrote a poem about the loss of a friend, although it took me many years to understand what I wanted to say. I grieved the loss I endured beforehand, and was bewildered about the loss I read from a Facebook post on a random morning, begging for it not to be true. It is a saddening thought that I am not the only one to feel so clueless about that person's pain until the day after they are gone. I ended up getting a tattoo for her a few years ago, a little graveyard that says See You Soon.

I am one of those people who understand grief and pain undeniably, as if it were marked in my skin with no need of a knife. Due to this, I know your poem, and your frustration in the loss, frustration that came on a tide too late. Let's review this, shall we?

"The day after you hurt yourself the world went numb.
The sky went gray, the air seemed to still, and your blood slowly dripped to the floor.
The day after you hurt yourself the scar felt stiff.
The blood mixed with your tears, the gauze and knife sat on the sink. And you would pick them up, again and again."

The way that you end each line with a period creates the atmosphere that each line was a struggle to breathe, that a comma was too quick a breath to take. The tissue underneath scars is more sensitive than fresh skin, which is why they heal smoothly like skin painted on glass. Keeping gauze next to the knife was a silent cry in its own, a bandage to heal alongside the knife to bleed. In a way, both items are seen to heal, bleed out what is considered harmful, and cover up the mistakes that were made.

"The day after you hurt yourself, you started wearing hoodies.
Cover your arms, makeup for the tear stains and silence was your best friend.
The day after you hurt yourself, you turned us all away.
No friends, no family. You were lonely and needed someone to stay.
The day after you hurt yourself, I noticed your flesh getting thinner.
You stopped eating, no more meals, and even more water."

Each day is weary, hoodies become solemn blankets of comfort, an easy escape from beady eyes and persistent questions. What is flesh when we cut it away? What is the means to create more, when we desire less? A cut from the skin often results in a cut from everything within.

"The day after you hurt yourself, I saw you slip.
I saw your gaze and I felt a pang of disappointment.
You had hurt yourself. I wish I had noticed.
I could've prevented these things before they fell into motion.
And the day I noticed you hurt yourself, I wanted to cry.
I wanted to tug you close and stitch what was broken inside."

The little glimpses and pangs of disappointment are when we desperately wish we had noticed, instead of the time that we truly did. A small tumble, an accidental bump into a rude cabinet on a bad day, that is what we hoped it was, for we can fix those. Rude cabinet? Man, I have had those days, and I've also woken up on the wrong side of the bed. I cannot stitch you back together, but we can walk to the store that has the thread.

"And the day I noticed you hurt yourself, there was nothing left to do.
Swinging from a rope, a letter on the floor, and that's when I knew.
The day you hurt yourself, you didn't only hurt you.
You hurt me. And them. And everyone who cared about you.
But that didn't happen the day you hurt yourself.
That all happened the day we noticed,
The day after you killed yourself."

The aftertaste is foul, all those memories that come rushing in, pulsing. You feel all the layers of grief at once, sadness turning to anger, and anger rushing to bargain with the rope as if that could change what has been done. It is a breaking moment, which I only noticed the day after.

All that aside, I am proud of you. You have done what others deem heavy and have spoken your truth. Sometimes, the heaviest things should not be portrayed in any other way.

I dance in the rain so no one can tell,
Which drops are sky-born and which are mine.
Love, Hawinay

Hello TheTaostedWriter,

I, too, wrote a poem about the loss of a friend, although it took me many years to understand what I wanted to say. I grieved the loss I endured beforehand, and was bewildered about the loss I read from a Facebook post on a random morning, begging for it not to be true. It is a saddening thought that I am not the only one to feel so clueless about that person's pain until the day after they are gone. I ended up getting a tattoo for her a few years ago, a little graveyard that says See You Soon.

I am one of those people who understand grief and pain undeniably, as if it were marked in my skin with no need of a knife. Due to this, I know your poem, and your frustration in the loss, frustration that came on a tide too late. Let's review this, shall we?

"The day after you hurt yourself the world went numb.
The sky went gray, the air seemed to still, and your blood slowly dripped to the floor.
The day after you hurt yourself the scar felt stiff.
The blood mixed with your tears, the gauze and knife sat on the sink. And you would pick them up, again and again."

The way that you end each line with a period creates the atmosphere that each line was a struggle to breathe, that a comma was too quick a breath to take. The tissue underneath scars is more sensitive than fresh skin, which is why they heal smoothly like skin painted on glass. Keeping gauze next to the knife was a silent cry in its own, a bandage to heal alongside the knife to bleed. In a way, both items are seen to heal, bleed out what is considered harmful, and cover up the mistakes that were made.

"The day after you hurt yourself, you started wearing hoodies.
Cover your arms, makeup for the tear stains and silence was your best friend.
The day after you hurt yourself, you turned us all away.
No friends, no family. You were lonely and needed someone to stay.
The day after you hurt yourself, I noticed your flesh getting thinner.
You stopped eating, no more meals, and even more water."

Each day is weary, hoodies become solemn blankets of comfort, an easy escape from beady eyes and persistent questions. What is flesh when we cut it away? What is the means to create more, when we desire less? A cut from the skin often results in a cut from everything within.

"The day after you hurt yourself, I saw you slip.
I saw your gaze and I felt a pang of disappointment.
You had hurt yourself. I wish I had noticed.
I could've prevented these things before they fell into motion.
And the day I noticed you hurt yourself, I wanted to cry.
I wanted to tug you close and stitch what was broken inside."

The little glimpses and pangs of disappointment are when we desperately wish we had noticed, instead of the time that we truly did. A small tumble, an accidental bump into a rude cabinet on a bad day, that is what we hoped it was, for we can fix those. Rude cabinet? Man, I have had those days, and I've also woken up on the wrong side of the bed. I cannot stitch you back together, but we can walk to the store that has the thread.

"And the day I noticed you hurt yourself, there was nothing left to do.
Swinging from a rope, a letter on the floor, and that's when I knew.
The day you hurt yourself, you didn't only hurt you.
You hurt me. And them. And everyone who cared about you.
But that didn't happen the day you hurt yourself.
That all happened the day we noticed,
The day after you killed yourself."

The aftertaste is foul, all those memories that come rushing in, pulsing. You feel all the layers of grief at once, sadness turning to anger, and anger rushing to bargain with the rope as if that could change what has been done. It is a breaking moment, which I only noticed the day after.

All that aside, I am proud of you. You have done what others deem heavy and have spoken your truth. Sometimes, the heaviest things should not be portrayed in any other way.

I dance in the rain so no one can tell,
Which drops are sky-born and which are mine.
Love, Hawinay

This poem really resonates with me. I know that this must have taken a lot of courage to write and post, and I appreciate it.
I love your repetition in the poem, it adds to the powerful feeling of this piece. Each line of this poem is filled with such deep, intense emotion that you convey so well to the reader. I can feel exactly what the narrator was feeling through your word choice.
I especially love the last three lines, I will admit my jaw dropped when I read the last line. They are so honest and I deeply connect with them.
Overall, I absolutely adored this poem. Each word feels so vulnerable and honest. Writing that talks about mental health and SH are very important and special to me. You are an amazing writer, keep it up!

hey this is Shakthisinha

when red your poem, the only thing that came to my mind is ,that i should give a review on this ,because people often don't have the courage to write poems like this. so I thought of supporting you and encouraging you on your writings and this my support to you...


This poem doesn’t just speak — it bleeds. Every line is a wound, every stanza a silent scream that most people walk past without noticing. I didn’t just read this, I felt it. Deep in my chest, like a weight pressing down, reminding me how often we miss the signs... until it’s too late.

The way the poem repeats “The day after you hurt yourself” — it’s haunting. It’s not just about one day. It’s about a slow unraveling, a quiet disappearance happening in plain sight. You captured that feeling so painfully well. The hoodie hiding the scars. The skipped meals. The silence becoming louder than words. That’s real. That’s what it looks like, and people don’t talk about it enough.

The guilt, the regret, the helplessness from the narrator’s perspective — it hit me the hardest. You can feel their desperation, their anger at themselves, their wish that they had seen it all earlier. That kind of pain — of realizing too late — is something I wouldn’t wish on anyone.

And that ending… it broke me. The shift from hurting yourself to taking your own life isn’t just a turn in the poem — it’s a knife in the heart. Because it’s real. It happens. And when it does, it’s not just one life that ends. It’s every life connected to that person that gets shattered too.

This poem is heavy, but it needs to be. It’s not written to be pretty. It’s written to be honest. And that’s why it stays with me. It’s a reminder to pay attention. To care harder. To never assume someone’s okay just because they’re quiet.

Thank you for writing something so raw and real. It hurt to read, but in the way truth is supposed to , at last i wish you all the very best for your journey ...


Namaste...

hey this is Shakthisinha

when red your poem, the only thing that came to my mind is ,that i should give a review on this ,because people often don't have the courage to write poems like this. so I thought of supporting you and encouraging you on your writings and this my support to you...


This poem doesn’t just speak — it bleeds. Every line is a wound, every stanza a silent scream that most people walk past without noticing. I didn’t just read this, I felt it. Deep in my chest, like a weight pressing down, reminding me how often we miss the signs... until it’s too late.

The way the poem repeats “The day after you hurt yourself” — it’s haunting. It’s not just about one day. It’s about a slow unraveling, a quiet disappearance happening in plain sight. You captured that feeling so painfully well. The hoodie hiding the scars. The skipped meals. The silence becoming louder than words. That’s real. That’s what it looks like, and people don’t talk about it enough.

The guilt, the regret, the helplessness from the narrator’s perspective — it hit me the hardest. You can feel their desperation, their anger at themselves, their wish that they had seen it all earlier. That kind of pain — of realizing too late — is something I wouldn’t wish on anyone.

And that ending… it broke me. The shift from hurting yourself to taking your own life isn’t just a turn in the poem — it’s a knife in the heart. Because it’s real. It happens. And when it does, it’s not just one life that ends. It’s every life connected to that person that gets shattered too.

This poem is heavy, but it needs to be. It’s not written to be pretty. It’s written to be honest. And that’s why it stays with me. It’s a reminder to pay attention. To care harder. To never assume someone’s okay just because they’re quiet.

Thank you for writing something so raw and real. It hurt to read, but in the way truth is supposed to , at last i wish you all the very best for your journey ...


Namaste...

hey this is Shakthisinha

when red your poem, the only thing that came to my mind is ,that i should give a review on this ,because people often don't have the courage to write poems like this. so I thought of supporting you and encouraging you on your writings and this my support to you...


This poem doesn’t just speak — it bleeds. Every line is a wound, every stanza a silent scream that most people walk past without noticing. I didn’t just read this, I felt it. Deep in my chest, like a weight pressing down, reminding me how often we miss the signs... until it’s too late.

The way the poem repeats “The day after you hurt yourself” — it’s haunting. It’s not just about one day. It’s about a slow unraveling, a quiet disappearance happening in plain sight. You captured that feeling so painfully well. The hoodie hiding the scars. The skipped meals. The silence becoming louder than words. That’s real. That’s what it looks like, and people don’t talk about it enough.

The guilt, the regret, the helplessness from the narrator’s perspective — it hit me the hardest. You can feel their desperation, their anger at themselves, their wish that they had seen it all earlier. That kind of pain — of realizing too late — is something I wouldn’t wish on anyone.

And that ending… it broke me. The shift from hurting yourself to taking your own life isn’t just a turn in the poem — it’s a knife in the heart. Because it’s real. It happens. And when it does, it’s not just one life that ends. It’s every life connected to that person that gets shattered too.

This poem is heavy, but it needs to be. It’s not written to be pretty. It’s written to be honest. And that’s why it stays with me. It’s a reminder to pay attention. To care harder. To never assume someone’s okay just because they’re quiet.

Thank you for writing something so raw and real. It hurt to read, but in the way truth is supposed to , at last i wish you all the very best for your journey ...


Namaste...

Thank you for writing this poem.

It must've taken a lot of courage to write, but it's really, really important that self-harm is addressed and spoken about. This poem's beautiful; the significance it gives to the subtle, mundane signs of human brokenness, the hurt and the guilt and the pain - you capture it all so well that I genuinely wanted to cry.

All I have to say is that the rhythm at the beginning is a little off, which I think is just a problem of punctuation or the placement of a word or two, but that also might just be entirely me.

Please don't ever stop writing! We need more writers like you in the world <33