She said she felt bad for my father
Because I wasn't speaking to him anymore

Then she read my poems

Words, as beautiful as they are,
Can't capture the feeling of relief
After harming the skin you were given
By "God".
They'll never capture the guilt
After putting the tool away,
The feeling of being cared for while you clean your own cuts,
The promise of never doing it again,
And the betrayal of your own words

I may be quiet
But that's just because my mind is loud

Everything
Is
Pain
Yet the only thing that helps
Is more pain

I think I'm done fighting it
I need to bleed

me and my mum
drive alone at night
to go buy nail polish
at the chemist.

she talks and sings
at our red cars
20 year old
built in radio.

i look into my visor mirror
at my eyebags
and listen to her voice
as it fills our silence;
with little input.

as they come and go
the streetlights outside
our misty windows
blur together
into vivid neon icing.

i ask her
as we drive
if we have
crinkle cut salt and vinegar chips
in the pantry at home.

she says she we do;
but she bought thins instead,
‘cause they were
the ones on sale.