Pain is better than numbness,
because at least I can feel
my life not just move through it.

we’re kids
we don’t know what
the hell we’re doing
all we know is
it felt good,
then it really
hurt

i guess i'm spending too much time alone. alone, that's right, all-one. one of me, two shots of the cheapest ***** i could find.

my knuckles are scarring. like my fingertips would, back when i was happy enough to hold onto things like music instead of, just hold on until three, that's it, then i can let myself bleed.

no, this isn't right.

i think my heart is too small for my ribs, i can feel it slipping through the third and the fourth. skidding, slippery, across my bedroom floor to collect dust under my desk.

i'm hiding from more things than i could ever count, but mostly its the five-six-seven-eight-when-will-it-end scars branding my shoulders and my thighs and my ribs.

but i really am tired of rearranging the same ten songs into different playlists that all mean the same thing. i know that adding one more wouldn't make a difference. mundane.

i've ignored every thought of the ugliest ways to go. a dozen tylenol can **** just as easy as a pistol, that's what i keep telling myself. but what i really want is to maul every inch of my body until i'm soaking my dark blue sheets the same color as the inside of my head.

and my life revolves around 13. haunted number, maybe. maybe there are ghosts around every corner in my mind and i've just gotten so accustomed that i'm treating them like guests.

i've been imagining myself fourteen years from now, how i'll wander around whatever ****** apartment i'm sharing with some stranger. how i'll tiptoe around those floors, trying not to disturb the dust that will have settled over every inch of my skin.

fifteen feels like too many years to pretend but i have to keep up this facade because there are girls who care what i think and who maybe would be hurt if i didn't have the proper insides to think anymore.

i don't plan on living till 27. but you know, things are good. this is fine.

the first time i walked across the golden gate bridge
i was too young to appreciate it
and too old to hold my sister’s hand.
now i read about the people who throw themselves off it
and imagine the universes hidden in each person’s head.

i’m not afraid of the things that go bump in the night.

once, a turkey bit my sister.
i have read more romance novels than i can count.
i have taped bandages over cat scratches,
and i have given important words to unimportant people.

i once taught a little kid how to spell assassin.
i have lived in eight different houses but never felt at home.
i’ve kissed boys,
and i’ve kissed girls.
i thought i was in love once.
i liked squirrels until i got too close to one.

i’ve avoided the south.
i’ve walked three extra blocks just to avoid a church.
and i have been burned at the stake.
i’ve felt flames on my thighs and ropes on my wrists,
and i’ve walked away with scars.
and, in the winter,
i’ve jumped into more rivers than i can count.

i lost my sense of humor this year.
i lost the little kid,
but i still cry when i spill my coffee.

once, i had rabbits.
i was eight when i found them
near the compost pile
laying in a puddle of blood.
when i was five i was nearly trampled by cows.
when i was seven, i almost drowned.

but i still breathe.
i still paint my nails black and sleep without resting.
i still bite my lips till they bleed,
and sometimes i wonder what i’ll look like with white hair.
i wear suspenders every chance i get,
and i try to shut doors quietly.

i will drink sweet coffee every morning until my heart stops beating.
i’m still waking up, though.