I feel guilty for getting better while you are getting worse
I feel guilty that my scars are fading while yours continue to bleed
I feel guilty that I can turn off my thoughts while yours still keep you up at night
I feel guilty that I cannot help you like you have helped me

Can I be your cigarette?
so you can pull me out of a dark box
so you can light me up when I'm cold
so you can keep me on your lips
so you can inhale me even though you know how toxic I am
but you don't really care because you love that feeling in your lungs

My heart is never valid in the presence of panic
yet I will still take a pen and drag it along paper
as if it were a stamp of my own approval
I will stay up late trying to make my screams sound like poetry
tuning every octave of my pain into a rhyme

Yes I still get suicidal thoughts, but then I remember how your hands feel against my skin and how you voice sounds like the most beautiful poetry when you say my name and then I remember, I could never leave something so perfect behind.

He told me he would go through hell for me if it meant I got better and the tears streamed down my face and the butterflies erupted in my stomach because he was the first to be willing to go through hell for me, not put me through it

My heart is frost bitten and the only thing I can feel is the black that the cold put there.  And the snow doesn't only bite at my exposed skin, it eats away at what happiness summer may have left behind.

If I were ever
to damage
myself
it would only be
so that I
could bleed
poetry.