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.

how do i explain
to the little girl
with long white-blonde hair
and blue eyes filled wonder,
that i want to hurt her.
that i’ve thought about it
more than once.
that i’ve cried over her
like a funeral
i didn’t attend.

she used to sing
in the grocery store,
twirl down hallways,
laugh so hard
she snorted.
she didn’t care
who was watching.

how do i explain
that now i flinch
when people look at me.
that i pick at my skin
just to feel
something.
that i miss her
like she died
and somehow
i’m the one who killed her.

i can’t explain.
so i whisper
i’m sorry
to the mirror.
and try,
just for tonight,
not to hurt
what’s left of her.