The irony of
what I just said—
I care for those
who willingly
****** themselves.
I beg on my knees,
pleading you to stay,
saying how much
I’m scared
to lose you.
I don’t want
you to go away—

Yet,
I never cared
about wanting
to die myself

Throughout my life,
it has been a conundrum.
I wait for someone
to numb the bitter.

The problem is…
Asking for support
or wishing you’d stay—
makes me feel sick.

I’m afraid you might think
I treat you like my therapist.
Seeing me decay as I watch
you walk away.
Pacing through the asylum,
clipboard in hand
as you stand there.
Listening, writing
down the things I say—
except how to
save a patient.

And that,
is the oldest
conundrum
to exist.

You said you
would be
"dead"
without me?

Well then…
why are you
still breathing
in my head?

Oh, it’s
so “selfish”
to say what
my true feelings
were to you?

“I love you.”

The most
offensive
sentence
I’ll ever say
in this room—

“I need you.”

A line I hear a lot of times.
My life—
bitter memoirs,
disappointments,
mental scars,
and feeling miserable
most of my
lonely moments.
Opened my emotions
only to feel vulnerable,
exposed to the
broken cold.

These past few days—
I hate them.
I ache in pain,
I cut myself—
my wounds on
my right arm
have no mouth
but scream for help.

Only to be sent away,
to hear them say,
“It’s not a punishment.”
A line that cuts deeper
than a sharp knife.

And yet I feel
so abandoned
in my own
treatment center.

In order to
write a poem,
You become the ink.
The Pen.
The Paper.
The Idea.
The Cold fear.
The Lover.
The Ghost.
The things you
hold the most.
To write a poem,
you must become
what you write.