i wish people told me they were proud of me

i wish i deserved it

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.

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.

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.

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.