I see an animal
Young, but a lot fatter for its age
It walks, carrying its weight
-How disgusting.
It struggles to walk a straight line
I held the gun towards the pathetic animal
Its eyes lock with mine
A round, bloated face
With a chin as big as that…
I pull the trigger… It's me
A cold body
Eaten by insects until I am nothing.

There are four walls surrounding me
Some feel thicker than others
And when I least expect it,
It hits me.
And I fall..
Yet somehow I get up
-I don’t know why.
This time I don’t want to get back up
I just want to stay down here
Close my eyes,
And rest.

I want to be lighter than the wind,
To fit a tube down my throat,
To let every meal slip away,
Into a bag where it would fall,
Where it won’t stay within.
Now my throat hurts.
I take the back of my toothbrush
And push it down my throat.
I have to push harder—
I’ve lost my gag reflex
Every swallow hurts,
Every bite digs a little deeper.
All I need is a blade, a thick tube,
And a bag to catch it all.

A little blood every day,
As you sit with the blade in your hand,
Scribbles on your skin,
Crying to the bathroom walls.

The writing on my hands—
For all the things I had to get done—
Now smeared with blood.
Now, as I wash my hands, the writing fades—
Nothing’s getting done today.

There’s something about
Cutting deeper and deeper into the same wound,
And the bandage not holding what’s within.
I’ve told the wild stories
About how I got them—
“My cat scratched me.”

But if it means taking away my pain,
For just a few minutes,
I’d do anything.
Even if I have to do it all again tomorrow.

****** folds of paper,
Bind with a sewing needle,
And of course, it needed a cover page-
A drawing in crayon,
Because the little child in me found joy in drawing with crayons.
Most of the pages were little glimpses of life.
As the pages passed, drawings appeared-
Drawings of what I thought I looked like,
-A strange way to capture self-hate,
Some pages carried words that would-
Make you feel like they were pressing down on your chest,
And you couldn’t really breathe.
-Suffocating
If I read them out loud, I would burst.
Some pages had tissues speckled with blood-
Like little red polka dots.
They were words I couldn’t express on paper.
I put them in a little box,
The world will never see it.
It wasn’t meant to be published.