I have a friend
who is in a state of
constant action.
Whether it is
talking
or walking
or kissing
or smoking,
she is doing.

I never understood why,
never understood how she could
always be bored
when things slowed down,
never understood why
silence wasn't peaceful to her,
until now.

When there are demons in your head
that whisper into the empty spaces,
you look for other sounds to drown them out;
you look for something
-anything, really-
that gives you something to think about
other than the aching in your chest.

But soon it becomes less of a habit
and more of a necessity.
You start getting desperate,
calling friends at 2am,
sneaking out to walk to the park
because at least you're not
trapped in your ******* room,
and with desperation comes regret.

You start doing things you're not proud of
but at least the demons were quiet
while you were doing it
so you do more to
forget about that regret
and so on.

And it works for a while.
But the demons will creep back in,
hiding between teeth
and in ash
and under beds,
until eventually
there is no where left
for you to run.

I'd like to thank

*****
for giving me the confidence to ask her out

Drunk texts
for the brutal honesty

Flannel shirts
for hiding my scars

My cats
for always being the cover story

My brother
for never telling my parents

My best friend
for finally telling my parents

That girl in my art class
for calling me kind

That guy I dated
for calling me selfish

My counselor
for telling me to mind my own business

The boy who said he loved me
for teaching me what love isn't

My bedroom
for keeping my sobs concealed

My headphones
for keeping my **** private

My ****
for keeping me from ******* that guy

That guy
for ******* me anyways

Guilt
for killing me

Guilt
for keeping me alive

Today I found a suicide note
that I have no recollection of writing.
It was addressed to my mother
but it felt more like a death threat
to myself
from someone who knows me
too well.

I keep telling myself
I do not want to die
but even with winter approaching
the days seem to be getting longer
and sleep
is the only time I feel safe.

It has been 17 days and 16 hours
but the cuts on my wrist still ache
when I move my arm the wrong way.
I don't think they're healing right.

I know this house is haunted
because I can hear demons
whispering ****** into my hairline.

Today I found a suicide note
that I have no recollection of writing.
I am writing another.

I was trying to write something including the line
it kissed with no desire to heal what it had broken
and so I wrote
it kissed with no desire to heal what it had broken
but I didn't know what
it
was so I changed
it
to
he
and I wrote that
he kissed with no desire to heal what he had broken
but I thought about
him
and I thought about what
he
had done and I thought about kissing
him
and the things that were broken but not healed and so I changed
he
to
I
and I wrote that
I kissed with no desire to heal what I had broken
and I payed attention to the broken pieces that
I
had created and the people that
I
had kissed and I thought about what
I
desired and never have
I
tried to heal what
I
have broken.

I have had seventeen birthdays including the day I was born.
I have lived in three houses and two apartments, have had four dogs and five cats, have dislocated my left elbow twice.
I have kissed four boys and three girls, have been one boy's first kiss, one boy's first time, another boy's first "I love you", I have never touched him.
I have smoked marijuana twice and been caught once.
I have worn a bow tie three times, have been called a **** four, have hit someone for it once.
I have been a vegetarian for three years and have slipped and eaten meat five times.
I have been through the same divorce twice in one week because my mom thought she had changed her mind; I have never told her how much worse that made it.
I have tried to eat grapefruit twice since the night I regurgitated that flavor of *****, I have failed both times.
I have gone forty-two days straight without drinking alcohol.
I have woken up and mistaken morning breath for the aftertaste of beer too many times to count.
I have held three of my closest friends after they were touched without consent.
I have made the boy who convinced me to sext him even though he knew I was drunk apologize once; he never felt sorry.
I have heard the three words "I love you" from one boy, I had to tell him he didn't mean it four times, had to tell him not to kiss me six even though I wanted him to, reminded myself every time that he was on his tenth shot.
I have forty-eight visible scars on my body from the times it was too hard to love myself, have told three different therapists the same two things phrased differently every time: one, I'm sad, two, I don't know how to stop it.
I have cried three times in the past week.
One was over the three friends that I have held after they were touched without consent, one was over the boy who said he loved me, one was over the boy who convinced me to sext him even though he knew I was drunk.
I still talk to him five times a week, take one deep breath, count to three, and force myself not to pull away every time he touches me, spend the next eight minutes between classes trying to pull myself together, remind myself it was only one time.
I have not been alone with the boy who said he loved me in six weeks.
I have thought about kissing him every day for the past three-hundred and eight days.
I have had three dreams about him, each one recurring two, seven, or four times.
I have been reminded by strangers of the way he looks at me six times.
I have almost died once, drank four beers and seven shots of five assorted liquors, drug a razor across my skin eleven times, called three people for help, one answered.
I stopped trying to hide the scars on my wrist after thirty-four days of wearing sweaters in eighty-something degree heat, have seen twelve people stare at my arm, received disapproving looks from four of them, have never been asked for an explanation.
I have commented on how pretty the sun looks on the ten minute ride to school with my brother every morning for the past two weeks.
I have complimented at least one person a day every day for the past two years.
I have worn my favorite beanie at least sixty times in the past year and there is nothing wrong with that.
I laughed fifty-seven times yesterday.
I said "I love you" eleven.
I have chosen to be alive every day for five thousand, nine hundred, thirty seven days.
I have never made the wrong choice.

He told me:
If you want to cut yourself,
then you're going to have to take my arm,
look me in the eyes,
and cut as many times as you would yourself.
I told him:
I couldn't hurt you like that.
and then I understood.
everything.