sometimes I trace the bottoms
of my fingers and down my palm,
I draw circles around my wrists

silently reminding myself
that there are no cracks,

that I am whole.

I run my eyes along the ceiling,
scanning desperately for a sign,
thinking maybe ghosts carved their names

between the ridges and the miniature shadows.
I sink my head into my pillow,

hoping maybe I will get
swallowed without a sound,
and I will drown,

like I almost did when I was eleven,

and I banged my ribs and burned my lungs
with black, dead water.

sometimes I have these moments alone

where your slow breathing
still won't calm me, not even the humming
of planes gliding through sky.

its 5:40 AM and my world is silent
but my mind is screaming.