I will write my secrets upon petals
and rip them up, bury the shreds
in the hallows of my ribs, and ****
your seeds of doubt in the process.
I will sleep till spring, so that when
I awake, maybe something besides
trouble will finally
bloom. Its heavy, my skin
soaked with stress
the nerves in my spine have electrified
and now my lungs are smoking
and crackling like a burnt fuse
and my heart ticks down
to the explosion.

Red, raw skin from trying to wash
away last year's acetone fingerprints
littered on my body. We were born
as paper air planes in spring,
destined to crash
at the end of winter in a landslide,
colliding with the base of the calendar
that hung around my neck like a noose.
Brittle bones with no marrow: I am physically,
emotionally, mentally, spiritually
hallow.
That was last year.
I'm trying to learn to be more introspective
without looking inwards through the barrel
of a gun. Last I checked my bruised and bloodied
heart was dangling out a second story window
tempting me to jump out and save it.
I'm done pretending now.
My paper plane may have crashed
but at least I'm on the ground.

Console me.
I can't do it myself.

Pet me, make me feel like I'm alright.
I have no idea
what it's like
to feel
CALM.
I think I'm finally crazy. Look me in the eye, judge me
see the red rims
witness
my complete instability.

Even shame is too exhausting now.

Hold my hands so they'll stop shaking. If I look in the mirror
one more time
I might punch my reflection.
I'm ready to be alive now.

I am bad with fragile things.
I like the noise of glass crunching
into sharp shards
I like watching
skin rip like silk.
*I want you to love me more than I hate myself.

I don't know what I'm looking for
when I look into your face. Maybe
reassurance
that it's not just a mask.

I don't know what I'm writing for
when I pick up a pen,
except that I want
desperation
to make sense.

I'm beginning to think
I've either forgotten
how to sleep
or how to live.