seven (7) drafts sitting lonely
seven (7) always was a cursed number

maybe that's why i can't write anything now

maybe i'll keep this in my drafts, too
so i can make it

eight (8)

frog
necklace
for
you

the purple dye in my hair
is fading

and i can't help but think
it's taking me with it

i got my name from an
artist

in love with a picture
of someone he thought he knew

i gave it to myself
because he understands what it's like

to love an idea so much
you fall for the person that gave it to you

i wanted to write about
how my fingernails take off my skin at night
or how i leave bruises in places i hate

i still want to scream about how i don't use knives, anymore
and tell you all the lies that let me get away with my own
self destruction

all these scars that have explanations
i'm nearly exploding
and the words will surely splatter on the wall



but i don't want you to mistake a poem
for an instruction manual