"don't"

D ealing with feelings.
O h please end this.
N othing else helps the pain.
' ...
T ell no one, not even your friends.

"don't" written on my arm with
these things bobbing in my thoughts,
surfacing then sinking only to
come back up like bile in an aching
throat after waves of sickness.

"don't harm here"
written on my arm.

i've turned into something awful,
something grotesque and bent,
sitting in the corner on the line of grey and black,
and stewing words inside of an open cranium,
mixtures of insecurities & dysfunctional thoughts,
it sits and spews this bile into a bowl,
held out in hands to catch it,
every night,
one hour,
shaken & stirred well,
poured down my throat,
*self-induced nightmares.

didn't think i'd make it this far,
or actually have someone see
something in me worth asking to
partake in their system for,
but here i am,
coming home to a letter saying
that i'm not a complete failure,
that my parents are "proud" of me this year,
my mother cried and laughed,
and to be honest..
i almost did too.

i don't know what it is exactly,
to the human eye it looks like smoke,
or a shadow of someone that has gone off course,
it likes to sit in my nana's rocking chair,
and stare across the room at me,
it has a tendency to chuckle or groan,
but it has no mouth,
whatever it is:
it seems to have one move left,
and i have none.

it doesn't matter if you think i'm thin

because to me,

all that matters is the number on the scale.

i'm scared of my imbalances
within my cerebral chemicals,
that the doctors try to fix with
pills and a locked room
with no windows and only
a bed that feels like paper,
with no strings allowed in pajama bottoms,
and blood being drawn every day,
then given a slap on the wrist,
and sent out on the false promise of
"i'll never do it again."

at six thirty every morning,
i wake up and turn my body
towards my alarm that's blaring,
i shut it off and realize
that i didn't wake up next to you.