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andrea hundt Jan 2014
I am fine, honestly. I've come so far from where I've been.
2. Look at my wrists. I told you I stopped.
3. Those aren't scars, it's just the lighting.
4. What? No, I wasn't crying. Idiot.
5. Of course I slept last night. Why wouldn't I have?
6. Yes, the nightmares stopped. I can breathe again.
7. I already ate. No thank you.
8. I'm finally over him, and I'm ready to fall in love again.
9. Don't worry. I am well enough to help you with your problems. I am okay.
10. I am safe. I wouldn't dream of hurting myself again.

I should have told you the truth. Maybe I wouldn't be in this lonely mess.

10. I'm not safe, and I need someone to take care of me. Please don't let me out of your sight. Something could get me, and that something could be me.
9. I'm sorry, I just can't help you. I can't even help myself. I'm afraid I'll make whatever you're going through worse. I just can't handle being at fault. Not again.
8. I don't think I will ever love anyone as much as I loved him.
7. I'm starving, but my God does it feel good.
6. I haven't slept for three days, and I can't see straight.
5. I can't sleep without you here.
4. I've been sobbing for hours. I know you heard me, and I know you don't give a ****.
3. I carved your name into my skin.
2. My wrists are clean to keep your questions at bay. Please don't check my thighs.
1. I have never felt worse than I do today. And I know tomorrow will be a new hell, and I would do anything to keep it from coming.

Anything.
andrea hundt Jan 2014
This is where your heartbeat lingers:
somewhere between hospital bed sheets
and the new-found aching in my chest.

The bed in which you slept
has been soiled by silent tears
and your nervous sweat.

You were always home to me,
but I was robbed by all your misery.

Replace your sorrows with an absence
of yourself, and I'll make my home
in your hospital bed sheets.

For some, this is a place of miracles.
For us, it's one of tragedy.
forever writing about suicidal friends
andrea hundt Jan 2014
"Beautiful, isn't it? Like magic."
Your voice is still present on the coldest days of winter.
I can see you catching snowflakes on your tongue.
"I love how they just melt away,"
I whispered.

For the first time I caught myself wondering
if I meant just what I said.
I love how they just melt away,
my worries when your eyes are lit.
Or do I simply enjoy watching
the magic fade upon your lips?
andrea hundt Jan 2014
I miss kisses fueled by passion
rather than driven by a hatred
for myself and the bitter taste
you left in my mouth.
here's to another night in the wrong person's bed
andrea hundt Jan 2014
I hope you heard my voice, in your sleep
and it haunts your waking hands that reach for me
in your empty bed.

I hope your arms forget everything but the air around them,
and you cling to memories instead of holding me.
*My bed is empty, too.
andrea hundt Jan 2014
Your arms were home, your love - the fortress I dared not wander from.
I was safe and you were happy, until the walls came crashing down.
A thousand breaks and then some,
in the foundation we thought was indestructible.
I suppose that maybe ignorance is bliss.

When the wind hit my cheeks and there was nowhere to retreat,
I knew it was the end of the home I'd grown accustomed to.
Shattered glass windows, tearing through my skin.
You broke to pieces in front of my very eyes,
and I stood there amongst the storm
like a deer in the headlights - destroyed by you.

I called in the best of contractors, to fix up the home I once knew.
But when the mess was cleaned up, you changed the locks on me.
With nowhere to go, I sought refuge in the beds of strangers.
But I keep finding shards of glass where no doctors can see -
lodged between my heart and the space you left between us.

Isn't it funny how safety can turn its back on you,
and how the best of repairs can never make things new.
It's time to find a new estate, with top line security.
I won't be hurt again, not taken by surprise.

I know you changed the locks,
and my doors will always stay closed.
But if you change your mind,
just climb in through my window.
andrea hundt Jan 2014
You never asked me how 2013 was for me,
so I carved the story into my skin
just for you to see.
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