"Sometimes to stay alive you gotta **** your mind."
         -twenty one pilots

"The problem with suicide is that when it becomes an option in your mind, it's always an option."

TELL THEM HOW CLOSELY YOU WOULD WATCH YOUR BATTERY DIE, TELL THEM HOW YOUR HEART WORKS THE SAME WAY, TELL THEM YOU ARE SO TIRED OF BEING USED, TELL THEM YOU ARE DEAD.

I’m sorry, body. I’m sorry for the sugars and fats, color coated and pink happiness rapid and fleeting. I’m sorry for forgetting the tiny trees when I was small, I’m sorry for rubbing my tongue along the roof of my mouth when I held milk in my hands.
I will have to apologize again, because where are my priorities, slumped in a corner? Most likely. I’ll fight for you by fighting against you in new ways.
Some of them say I’m trying too hard. She watches me burn and smile and pull you closer to my soul. She tells me not to brush your limit.
But I want to. I want to stretch you and pull you and lengthen you long. I want to hold you and push you and lean into your weight. I want you to be lighter, please disappear. I want you to be stronger. I drive you hard into flexibility and I smile at the progress. I think it feels good. You might not.
But what can I say? (I love making these excuses.) I grew up doing it, I grew up with hands on my hip bones that groaned for air, I grew up trying harder. I’m sorry, body. I stood on the tips of your toes, I did not hinge my hips when I bent my back in opposite directions.
I’m sorry for my false alarms. For my nerves and the shadows in my brain. I’m sorry for assuming the worst of you, for never trusting you’re safe. I’m sorry for working you overtime and never paying you back. (but you scare me. Why are you so afraid? My brain is hushed, I hear no screams. Quiet. Relax. Sometimes I can’t live with you around. Sometimes it hurts to feel.)
I’m sorry that I don’t want to know you. That when I am forced, you are a mystery I discover. I love to learn, but hate to know the possibilities. Let’s stay strangers, comfortable behind the clouds.
I like your rib cage, I like the waterfall hips. I like the way your mask feels when it’s shaved smooth with a blade (I’m sorry for the nicks and the way the cabinet scraped your shins. I’m sorry for the knees stained purple and green. I’m sorry for rolling over your feet with rubber and metal and books that ooze. I’m sorry for coloring you in.)
I’m sorry for not letting you free.
Your spine shifts and waits. A snake, trapped and waiting for freedom. You wait to escape your own skin, to escape my reach. You eat me, curve me, push me to a spiral. I hear your threats, please take what I offer.
I hear self hate and am taught self love. “Your body is perfect just the way it is!” Beautifully sculpted a secret betrayal.
Please take what I offer, please take my ransom. My apologies, body. I’m sorry.