She places the stack on the counter
After having spent eight hours at work.
While on her short intermission
She opens the long white envelope
That protects a letter creased in thirds.
She scans what is owed
And when it is due
Before placing it back in its jacket.
Then she grabs her coat and her purse
Before leaving to start
Another four hours
At her part time job.
The first night I stayed under the stars at your house,
I tossed and turned until finally I woke you with
Soft kisses over your bare shoulders and on your chest
Just above your heart.
After stirring out of your slumber, your lips brushed mine
And the crook of your arm fit perfectly around
My body as you held me close.
One of us just barely awake, the other wide.
Learning to sleep with someone new takes time;
Discovering the way their chest rises and falls
Like the tide comes up to kiss the sand
Before receding back and pushing forward again.
Listening to their deep breaths as they lay
Almost lifeless on their back,
Matching their breaths to heartbeats beneath your cheek.
The way they stir in the sleep and reposition
Themselves so their arm holds you safe and secure
Even when they’re dreaming.
My first paper cut happened so fast
I didn’t know something so thin
Could hurt so badly.
Thin was never an adjective
I’d associated with pain but
The sting of red blood that
Appeared on the surface of my skin
Would later become an addiction
I couldn’t get away from.
Thin silver razor blades
And thin white paper
Shouldn’t seem so similar.
My teacher asked me if I needed a
Band-Aid at my kindergarten conference
When a paper cut sliced my finger
While we were going through my materials
As if looking into my future.
I told her I didn’t need a Band-Aid
And in return, she told me that I was strong.
Kindergarten has come and gone
And after a very long time of thinking
Band-Aids made you weak,
I’ve realized that bandaging up your
Wounds actually makes you stronger
Than trying to bottle up the hurt.
I’ve written my suicide note disguised
Too many times in too many text messages.
I can’t understand why no one is trying to save me
When that’s exactly what I’m waiting for:
Someone to tell me that I need help.
Someone who doesn’t just listen,
But takes me to the hospital.
Because I can’t bring myself to drive with scars lining my wrist
Through traffic lights under the stars to the emergency room.
But I can’t swallow the number of pills, I lost track of count
To take me out of my misery either.
Kissing a bullet through my lips
Is too much noise and clean-up,
But at least I’d be gone; guaranteed.
Thoughts don’t guarantee anything,
But they set the idea in motion.
Thinking of my funeral from afar,
Watching everyone dressed in black,
Crying their mascara down their cheeks,
Almost would have me fooled that they care.
The very thought of imagining my own funeral
Makes me think that I might just be able to create it.
I shaved my head this morning.
The sun hadn’t yet conquered the horizon
But the birds outside the window cheered for me
As I pulled the shaver from my forehead to my crown.
My tiny fingers gripped the electric razor,
Holding on for life,
As it were much too big for my nervous hands.
I cut my skull three times before allowing myself to cry.
I peeked at the blonde clumps of hair that rained
To the cold bathroom tiles and puddled around my feet.
After finishing, I went to lay in the arms of my blankets,
While my pillows kissed the back of my head,
Healing the nicked wounds scattered over my skin.
I left the hair to sleep in the sink and over the floor.
Welcoming the sun rise, it felt warm against my bare skull
And I wondered if this was how heaven felt like,
Walking up to the gates.
I'm unsure about the title, so very open to suggestions.