People always say that it hurts at night
and apparently screaming into your pillow at 3 am is the equivalent of being heartbroken.

But sometimes
it's 9 am on a Wednesday morning
and you're standing at the kitchen bench waiting for the coffee to brew

And the smell of dusty sunlight and Columbia roast makes you miss them so much
you don't know what to do with your hands.

My mother told me that you can't cure depression,
that taking pills wouldn't fix me and taking six instead of the one the doctor prescribed definitely wasn't going to speed up the process. But then I met a boy who tasted better than Sertraline. He made it easier to get out of bed. He kissed me like I was alive, like I wasn't empty, like maybe there was something left inside me. He made my bones ache less when he touched me. He made it okay. When my world was crashing down around me, he picked up all the pieces. When I stopped breathing and tried to tear open my veins to find the last bits of happiness left in my veins, he was there to lace me back together. But he left and I haven't washed my hair in three weeks.

My mother was right.

Sometimes I feel like
ripping
apart my skin and
searching
for a reason for why
I feel this
empty.

Maybe my veins are tangled,
or something is lodged in my
ribcage.
Because it feels like something
inside of me is missing

or broken.

I wish I knew how to explain this.
This feeling of disgust and emptiness.
I didn't even look at myself in the mirror once today.
I knew my reflection would only make this feeling
more prominent.

People say I'm
beautiful
and
thinner
than I once was,
but I don't see it.

I pretend I do, but
I don't.

I don't know what I'm doing with my life.

The feeling of
missing you is
permanently
stuck in my
throat,
I keep trying
to cough you
up and
everyone thinks
I'm sick

Maybe I am.