my bones are hollow
like those of a mother bird's
but when i force myself to throw up,
the only child i am feeding
is the madness
that lives in the nest
of my own mind

i swallow my pride like maggots
in cocoons of silence,
and when they turn into butterflies
fluttering in my stomach
i want to *****
but he steals them from my throat
and tacks their wings to his wall

i'm sorry, since when was my shoulder an invitation?
since when were my shorts a request?
since when did anything but my mouth spell out the word "yes"?
since when did "no" mean "yes"?
since when did wearing shorts make me desperate,
but isn't that what you were begging for?
you say i'm a **** for showing my shoulders,
but isn't that what you wanted in the first place?
it's when the guidance counselor says,
"well, what were you wearing?"
that you should know there is a problem.

i spend my time
reading ghost stories
and seeing myself in them.
my every footstep becomes a graveyard,
my every word a tombstone,
and I am now the ghost who haunts them.
it's fun to visit a haunted house
once, maybe twice
but no one wants to live there.
if ringing my doorbell is a joke,
then my love is only the punch line

if depression = darkness
i'm no longer afraid of the dark,
but perhaps that's part of the problem