I know you thought
reviving me
would fix the problems
that lay between us.
That if you
collected enough
pieces of me
that broke over time,
you could put them
back together again
perfectly.
But those broken
shards
were not pretty,
and they do not fit right.
You have reanimated
a gruesome monster
in a body
similar to mine.
I am cold
and terrifying
and I will ruin you
until you are nothing
but a corpse
beneath my fingertips.
I wish I could be
human enough
for you,
but I am not alive
Inside
anymore.
There is nothing left to me
but flesh
and ****** hands
and an empty chest
I will never exist in
again.

I lie awake at night
and list off all the ways I avoid feeling the ache in my chest.
All the little things I do
that become desperate behaviours
of my personality trying to fix itself.

Like collecting books and arranging them
in order across the shelf,
because the fantasy
of a world so different from mine
feels like a void I can fill my room with.

Like placing my physical sentimentalities
in a box at the bottom of my drawers,
so it feels like I have
a private place
to bury myself in and know
there is something good
still alive
somewhere.

Like sleeping with the curtains wide open,
because I like to
fall in love with the dark
from a safe distance,
and still imagine suffocating myself in it
at the same time.

I tell myself that
If I fill all the spaces
with enough distractions,
I can forget why I was sad in the first place.
I can convince myself
having the rest of the bottle of *****
will make me feel more alive
than I do sober.
I can convince myself
kissing a boy I don’t know
will make me feel like
I am worth being loved.
I can convince myself
my childhood no longer screams
in my ears
that my existence is nothing more
than a burden.

Until I’m lying in bed
listing off all the ways I avoid feeling the ache in my chest,
and I realise it’s not an ache
but a hole
that’s been bleeding forever.
And there’s not a patch
big enough to make it stop.