i’m in math, but i’m writing about you again. i don’t care about the numbers, only if you slept, only if you’re okay, only if you’re hurting. i feel like a fraction when you’re not whole.
my name was just letters until you said it, soft, certain, like it belonged to someone worth holding. you gave it weight, a kind of beauty i never saw alone, until you spoke it, and it became yours.
i hurt people who love me, i lie to stay afloat. i say i’m fine when i’m folding in on myself. i miss him, even when i shouldn’t. i want too much. i disappear. i think i’m a bad person. maybe i am. maybe i’m not. either way, i can’t seem to stop.
i told them i was tired. they said “get some sleep.” but i didn’t mean tired like that. i meant tired like i don’t want to be alive. but no one heard me.
why not instead of stacking red cuts up on your arm and leg you stack words in bleeding ink words to live by, to make you think press the pen tip to your skin and do not lift up the sharp thing ever again