these days feel like the crumbs you get at the bottom of the cereal box. not half as good but i’m still reaching my hand in and scraping them from the folds at the bottom of the bag. dust in my fingernails and the gross feeling that comes with too much sugar and wishing i had another day, another bowl of cereal to end on, wishing i hadn’t taken so much already. i’m going to have to buy another box soon. too soon.

i like the old days.

you’re the only person i feel safe talking to and somehow even that scares me.

safety. terrifyingly illusory. i wish i could pick and choose my fears, decide for myself what was worth my anxiety, worth hours and hours of tears and self-lies. i don’t know how good i have to be to have made it, how far i have to go to feel at home in myself.

sometimes i think you might be
a crutch
but without you it's a bit
too much.

yesterday you said i'm the best thing
but if that's true
why do you say i'm bad for you
when the sun goes down

i keep telling people
i'm bettering myself for myself,
to be the type of person
i would like,
someone i can be happy being.
really i'm just lost
and looking for anything
that could make me
worth loving.
i'm not enough on my own.

"esmeralda."

“it certainly slides off the tongue, doesn’t it,” i say. her eyes are the darkest shade of blue i’ve ever seen. remarkable.

“no,” she says, chin up. “but neither do i.”

as surgery
is to god