I want to write
I want to make the words come out,
like a bulimic purge
of all the things that are killing me inside.
I purge,
the stench of death filling my nostrils and lungs,
suffocating me in my own memories,
visions of my past will flood my mind and take control,
like some disorder that I cannot contain
to sitting on the bathroom floor
crying, screaming with vocal chords that won't make a sound
crying not over my body,
but the images of the bodies
that lay cold, and silent
my mom and dad

I hate mirrors
not because I don't think I'm pretty
but because when I look
I see more than me looking back
I see all the times
I have ever looked in a mirror
tears streaming down my face
begging myself to keep going
telling myself everyone was wrong
trying to convince myself
that there was something worth staying for.