This year I'll bleed for better reasons.

I'll take a tumble after a night of drinking at the bar,
knees skinned and raw because I wasn't used to my heels.
I'll brush it off and let the blood trickle down my legs
as I stumble back home at 2 am.

I'll learn to hold my liquor.

I'll bite my tongue a thousand times and taste copper.
Whether silencing myself for my mother or my professor,
the friend who thinks she's always right. Or the *******
who's screaming sexist jargon.

I'll learn to pick my battles.

I'll cook myself delicious meals and the knife will slip
while I chop shallots and potatoes for my feast built for one.
I'll let my ****** battle wounds season the food and I
won't flinch at the thought of eating another meal alone.

I'll learn to love myself.

I'll pull the knife from my heart and back and wield them
like weapons fit only for my hands. I'll lick the blade clean
and scare anyone who dares try and harm me.

I'll never bleed for you again.
I'll bleed for better reasons.

I.
I am no longer buoyant.
My body is lead and rock,
swiftly sinking where I
once floated in ease until
I reach the very bottom.

II.
Please don't let me sink.
I can't be this heavy forever.
I crave that weightless feeling.
I want to bob back to the top
and feel the sun on my skin again.
But I can no longer see the surface,
and I can only hold my breath so long.