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lizie 14h
i’m lonely
but i’m not alone.
there are people.
there is love.
but they don’t see
the place in me
that’s gone quiet.

i laugh
but i don’t feel lighter.
i sleep
but i don’t wake up whole.

i miss myself.
i think she left
in the middle of a sentence,
mid-song,
mid-smile.

and now i carry
someone who looks like me,
talks like me,
but doesn’t feel
like home.
lizie 1d
i wish people told me they were proud of me

i wish i deserved it
lizie 1d
every time i walk into the dollar store,
i find my way to the crafts aisle.
i linger in front of the blades.
there is an exacto knife,
extra edges gleaming in plastic.

i stare too long.
but i’m not supposed to want this anymore.
so i keep walking.

i leave with a bag of rubber bands.
before i reach my car,
one is already tight on my wrist.

as i drive home,
there’s one hand on the wheel,
one hand snapping the band
again and again and again.

by the time i pull into the driveway,
the underside of my wrist is
red, swollen, stinging.

and i like it that way.
lizie 2d
i lie in small ways.
i say “i’m okay”
when i’m barely here.
not to deceive,
just to survive.
i let them see the edges
but not the bruise.
and i don’t know
how to hand them
the whole truth.
so this is the version i bring.
lizie 3d
i’m not like you.
me and you,
we are not the same.

you see a scratch,
i see a reason.
you ask why my arms look like this,
i say,
they’re just scars.

you pass by a razor,
i break it down in my mind.
you see a pocket knife,
i wonder
how sharp,
how deep,
how much.

you live.
i survive.

we are not the same.
lizie Jul 1
i didn’t even like my therapist.
but when i got the message today,
“i’m resigning from my role here,”
i felt a pit open in my stomach
and swallow me whole.

i didn’t particularly like her,
but she knew.
the shape of my sadness,
the thoughts i only say when i’m tired.
i gave her a map,
half truth, half lie,
and now she’s tearing it to shreds.

i’ll sit across from someone new,
say, “i guess it started three summers ago,”
even though it started long before
i ever said it out loud.

like how at eight,
i worried about the size of my thighs.
or how
i’d build wild theories
if my mom didn’t come home on time.

they’ll ask,
“what do you want out of this?”
and i won’t say:
to not be broken.
to not have to explain.

i’ll lie,
just like i always do.
lizie Jun 29
you reached out
on january 7th in 2024,
and i haven’t stopped
loving you since.

in music,
in poems,
in every sleepy
“goodnight, i love you.”

you are the quiet
i want to come home to.
my comfort,
my constant,
my boy.
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