I fall in bed at night
I can finally take off my socks
It's 98° outside
Branches going up my ankles
The shape of trees in winter
If my family saw
it would raise panic
I honestly don't care anymore
I don't care about anything
I want my body to be a canvas and a blade to be the paintbrush
Showing that I actually hate myself
You think you're okay until you see red
The moon picked up the knife
Slid it across my skin
Ink falling on the white tile
Words I could never say spilling out
This is not okay
But neither is dying
And this is better than dying
So this is my choice.
I am going to end up dead.