You, my friend,
are a broken masterpiece.
You were carved out of shattered glass
and you continually forced your cracks
into mine
like broken heirlooms,
not that I ever had a problem with that,
I jammed my cracks into yours
just as forcefully,
I think my biggest mistake was thinking
that you could fix them.
Your eyes are worn with things
no boy should have seen,
the leather falling from your boots
and your skin is chipping,
with time,
nothing will be left of you but a memory.
What's sad is that
I'm not sure I have a problem with that either.
I gave a total of 2 years of my life
to you
and when I decide to give it to someone else,
you disappear,
not a trace left of you but the blood
that came from your razor while you were gone.
Memories of us peeling from the back of my brain,
conversations rusted over,
you came back and I was so relieved
that I said nothing about the thin red lines that littered your arms
at first.
Then I found out you'd only come back
to get that pack of cigarettes I owed you.
I still wonder what goes through your mind
when you think about me, now.
What's left of your heart is consumed
with the hatred you feel for my boyfriend,
and that shouldn't erode my thoughts
as much as it does
but in the end nothing is left but hurt,
raw and naked and painful.
That's the thing about pain, you see-
it demands to be felt,
but without you I feel strangely free,
like I could spread my snapped wings and fly
through a sky dotted with shining promises
and the haze of a moon that
makes my yellowed teeth and tattered clothing glow
and I don't know if that excites me
or scares the hell out of me,
or both.

I carry my doubt, worry, fears out to your truck but leave them in the passengers seat.
For this moment, I am alive.
I gaze out towards the orange and brown trees, tinted with a red as deep as the love I feel for you. Walk towards the wind, my hair rustles with the leaves and you laugh as my cheeks turn pink from the cold. Sit out on a dock and overlookinh a lake straight from a painting, I am alive. I can see the green horizon and the reflections of branches in the water, over hills and under grass, if you look just a little farther, you'll find you and me, because we're so alone in this moment and I can finally breathe because I feel so free. I lean into the wind, fall back against the dock and sigh, a smile on my face, the lake looks like a thousand diamonds strewn across a blue plane. I am alive. I am breathing, and for once I don't hate the fact that I am. This sno-berry tea carries the taste of longing that, if elsewhere, I can only get from your lips, and I love it. I am an addict itching for a fix of release from reality and instead of my normal methods, I found it in you.

My doubt coincides with different sides of my minds and I’m not quite sure how to restore peace. I’m wasting away my days in the hopes that things will change but never actually trying to relate, I can’t restore happiness in this war in my head, all I want is my light back, but my eyes are gaunt and I lack the will to be anything more than this. i guess all I can do is pray for any salvation I could find in restoration.

They say a full moon can make a person do crazy things. I still don’t know if that’s true; the full moon was last week and, though I can still see it’s shine in your stormy grey eyes, I know it can’t be the reason I have this feeling stuck in my gut telling me to (kiss you) just live.

Ana,
I used to play with you when I was younger.
I remember you were so proud
the first time I weighed 125,
I guess those stomach problems came in handy
for keeping you by my side,
I'd go days without eating,
and you'd smile.
I never let you influence me too much, though...
Not until now.
I've always had you on my mind.
You are inherently deadly,
you are addictive in your toxicity.

I'm not hungry.

I can't help but wonder when Mia
will get me on my knees again.

I'm not hungry.

I'm one of those people who
******* about romanticising mental illness
and eating disorders, yet here I am,
giving a name to you.

I'm not hungry.

All the poems about how my razor
takes my blood and breath but gives me life,
but I've written none about you for a while.
Blood drips from my arms and thighs
and, pinching the soft, scarred skin,
I think of you.

I'm not hungry.

You are a decidedly perfect example
of deadly willpower.
You are one of my several methods
of self-destruction
and yet another thing for me to fall in love with,
I am an addict itching for a bit
of self-hatred, and you are an easy fix.

I'm not hungry.

Maybe if I was just a little bit thinner,
then maybe I'd get there.

*I'm not hungry...

The first time a blade danced across my skin,
blood dripping from my open wounds like stagnant springwater,
a pain that I can mark as real, as consistent, as constant,
a promise of friendship stained a deep red,
I fell in love with self-mutilation.
The first time I skipped a meal,
first time I saw the thin frame of a girl all skin and bones,
all pointed curves and sharp edges,
I fell in love with self-destruction.
The first time I tasted nicotine on my teeth,
ash dropping to the floor and crumbling,
my demons lit up with my lighter
I fell in love with the taste of what I knew would **** me.
The first time I skipped my stomach meds,
later that night, I threw up everything good I thought about myself,
and I fell in love with self-hatred.
When I was taken off of Prozac,
I sobbed because he was my best friend who made me
so much ******* worse and I loved every second of it.
The first (and only) time I attempted suicide,
saw the innermost layers of my own skin
dripping with adrenaline and fear,
I fell in love with the bleak hospital walls
as I lied in a bed, watching this ****** poking and prodding at my arm,
stitching my pain silent-
no, no, don't- just let me die here, ******!
let me slice myself into oblivion,
it's not like anybody would miss me, anyway.
The first time I slept with a man,
a 27 year old,
the man who felt like a better father than the man I called "dad",
who was there when nothing else was but my razor,
I was 11, and I didn't realise what it meant
to give yourself to somebody so completely.
All I knew was that I was in love with him,
and that an experienced, older man
meant that *** felt really ******* good.
I presume that was when I fell in love
with the physical aspect of relationships
and for a long time, those physical aspects were all I saw.
The first time I penned my frustrations and hate,
raw and naked and painful,
in the form of an apologetic suicide letter,
I fell in love with the way I could romanticise pain.
I must have a notebook full of those by now.
but the first time I saw you...
I fell in love with the way you could silence my hate
without lifting a finger,
your stormy grey eyes that recognised I was seen and heard by everyone but myself,
your arm that I could grab onto so easily
because I knew in some way that it could stop me from falling to my demise,
your voice that could drown out all of my demons that swim around
in my mind,
that for the longest time have been trying to **** me,
I fell in love with you.
I fell in love with the honesty I found in you,
with the cold fingers that interlaced with mine perfectly,
the way my head fits on your shoulder.
I fell in love with the way you stood by my side
and pulled out your own rusted sword,
said, "I'll fight with you."
The suffering was definitely worth the reward
when it comes to what us being together put people through.
You've seen almost every side of me,
you've seen me consumed by hatred,
anger, rage, laughter, fear, joy, love,
slit wristless and bare skinned,
and yet, you stay.
You've got a few parts of a soul,
I've got a few pieces of a heart...
Let's make eachother whole.

It isn't until
I'm hunched over in a bathroom stall
and my mouth tastes like stomach acid
that I realise I'm not better
and I'm not sure I want to be.