and making me want to die was something you were always good at.
not in a bad way
because for someone who has been suicidal since age 11,
that means you made me feel something.
feeling something has been a problem of mine for a while now
i either feel it all or nothing
and my therapist tells me that's
"black and white thinking"
and i tell her
"no, it's realistic"
and she laughs and tells me i must be colourblind
but the world has so many different tones of grey
and i tell her i know
i just can't see them yet
and she sends me home with a worksheet to fill out
she says bring it back tomorrow for our next session
but the worksheet asks me questions i don't have the answer to
"what's your favourite shade of grey"
almost arbitrary
could be written off
but i feel the breath catching in my throat
because i don't think about grey anymore
grey reminds me of the colour in your eyes
a colour chart that ranges from silver lining
to solitaire
you've ran off again
and i have to be honest
i'm glad that when
you left
you left
me colourblind
because i can't see grey without thinking of you
and i can't see your note so it's another night of feeling nothing
feeling something
feeling it all

it's taking forever to move my hands across
the keyboard where i sit and write
spilling my feelings to strangers
i swore nirvana would always be my favourite band
but people change and i used to be so angry
i hated the world and people in it
and the familiar scream of pain in the music
made me feel something and nothing
at the same time.
run on sentences are beautiful because it's almost as if everything you want to say is spilling out and you can't keep them from pouring from your mouth or your mind or your soul
smoking with my friends is beautiful
because the people i've known for the shortest amount of time
are the ones who are closest to me
my phone lit up with the names of people i haven't talked to in years
because they care enough to ask me if i'm ok
when my desperate cries for help aren't heard by anyone in the city
washington, d.c. is so beautiful
but the people in the city
walk by with their heads down
and i wonder if they think
it takes forever to move their feet
just like it's taking me forever
to get my words written down.

i want to be smaller.
tiny, tinier, tiniest.

i want to be so small, that
i fit into a jar, and
can hide in the walls of
houses i never called
home,

maybe if i cut out some
stuffing, i will be satisfied.

my back
will slump forward and you
will see my spine, but i
will be smaller,
less open,
less
there..
.

and i will cease to exist,,,
almost
an empty shell of skin and
zipper, collapsed on the
floor, maybe my lungs will still
breathe.:

die, died, will die.
i want to be dead.

He told her

It is the beauty on the inside that counts

Her response

Then why do my insides continue to find themselves in the wrong place
Lifted into white porcelain gods
Asking anyone to compliment my withered self
Please make love to me
Tell me I am better than the acid on my tongue
The regret powering my mind as I struggle down my dinner
Inside is where I find these thoughts
Thoughts powering my actions
Into a spiraling pit of self loathing
Tell me I am pretty one more time
And I will show you my insides to prove it

nothing can ever replace you

and the more I drink the more I think about you