rewrite my name

In whatever script suits you.
Twist the letters
Distort the consonance
until the whispered sound that turns my head
begins and ends with you.

Scratch your fingernails over my mind–
make it skip like a broken record

drown me in your words.
let them overcome me
I want all that I hear and breathe to be

The sound and smell of you.

rewire my heart
to beat along with the rhythm of yours.

I want the parts of me,
definitively mine,
To melt and mold with yours.

So that I might know you deeply and entirely.

cut me down to the bone
look at the spoiled, sick
pieces of me.

and ask me
what went wrong.

I’ll show you the invisible scars
the footsteps on my heart
the fingerprints on my wrist
the scalding burns that scathed the neurons in my hippocampus.

Slice me open.
navel to nose
and walk away with bloodied hands.

I’ll keep the scars and scratches
and turn my head to the tune of your name.

Are you sure?
Are you lying?
It's nothing against you,
I swear.
I just hurt.
Everywhere,
Everyday,
Every minute.
Every heart beat hurts me.

I have my doubts,
I'm sorry about that.
But
I've had more than my fair share of lies,
Deception,
Mind games.
I just can't help but wonder...
Do you REALLY care?
Or am I another woman to you?
Another person to take advantage of?
Do I really matter to you?
Or am I something for you to use,
For your own pleasure,
Then leave me wounded?

I have my doubts,
Sorry about that...

I'm a grenade,
Ticking...ticking...ticking.
I hunger for the love that people get on a daily basis,
But once I'm close,
I loose it all...
I don't want to hurt anyone else,
Please,
You have to understand.
I love you dearly,
But I'm afraid to hurt you.

If you love me,
I need you to understand,
You're seeing all my scars.
You have to understand how sad I am,
All
The
Time.
You have to understand,
I come with baggage.
Lots and lots,
of baggage.
You have to understand,
When I say,
"I love you",
I mean,
"Thanks for not  leaving me."
I mean,
"Thanks for being there."
And of course,
"I will always be there for you."

i’d rather write about the freckles on your back than think about all of the ways in which you quite possibly don’t love me.

i feel sick at the very thought of you picking me apart the way you did; fingers grabbing and stroking in a catastrophic symphony of skin and vulnerability.

let’s read between each other’s lines; share my sentences and punctuate my paragraphs with your mouth; because i can breathe easier on the mornings where i wake up wrapped around you.

because my moods change like the ******* seasons and the spinning in my head doesn’t want to stop.
                                         you tell me that i should probably get a therapist because no one that thinks about all the ways in which they could **** themselves has an ounce of mental stability.
                                          i tell you that i have been to four.
                                          names faded into a blur with hazy snippets of conversation remaining.
20mg.
                    30mg.
you tell me that trust issues and scars aren’t endearing and i tell you that neither is counting up the potential number of pills needed to dissolve your body into the living room carpet.

let me sink inside your skin and make a home in your flesh;
i tell you about the nights where i lay awake in the bath turning the water red.
                       tragic, isn’t it.

you tell me that this isn’t how my head should work and i tell you that i already know. everything you could possibly tell me i already know.
i know that 400 calories a day isn’t normal, and my hands shouldn’t shake all the time.
                                             i know.
please let me stitch myself into you, even just for a while; until i no longer feel dizzy and my world stops spinning.
i don’t need you to tell me that it will be okay, because honestly i don’t think it will be and, that in itself, is okay.
                                                                ­                 let me stitch myself into you, because my own skin can’t take it anymore.

let me call you back when my voice stops wobbling and my vision straightens out, but honestly, i’m terrified that it never will. what if this is it. headaches and tears and shaking and blood.
                                             and the debilitating, gut-wrenching feeling of pure and euphoric emptiness.

                                              tragic, isn’t it.