My thoughts become knots my fingers bleed to untangle.
I throw them on the ground in front of people hoping they’ll find enough value in me to try to help remedy. Hoping they won’t mind the blood already smeared on them and would ***** themselves for me.
Willing to take off their shoes and walk over the hot coals of my insecurities and become baptized by my knowing they would suffer for my company.
At what point do I decide to stop burning? My insides are cooked to a well done keeping aflame this self hatred.

We have not touched but I feel close
As though I have laid my palm upon the warmth of your chest and the beating of what resides there has a rhythm that makes me want to not leave it
It rings in my senses
The tune of you

I pick at you like an old scab my mother has told me to let be
I must love the pain
I must enjoy the ache in my stomach
Because I come back to this like it’s the only watering well for miles
Seeking a taste of relief but the water is vinegar and I wince at its bitterness
I pick at you like an old scab
My flesh tender
I bleed and I ask myself why I’m so tired
Forgetting that I’ve slashed myself time and time again never letting the wound heal leaving a blood stain on every woman‘s bed since
I pick at you like an old scab