there's blood drying under my nails and i can still taste the blood in my mouth
i keep scratching and clawing at myself
a self-induced appearance of leprosy without the actual disease
i'm biting my lips, my mouth, my nails
there are strips and chunks of my own flesh sticking in my throat
i guess you could say it's a bit ironic that i'm choking on myself, that i'm slowly turning myself inside out
maybe if i just scratch harder, scrape faster
(scratch and sniff but with flesh and blood)
god i need to see open wounds I need to open every single bump in my skin
i yank out my hair and eat the skin off my fingertips but it's ok i don't need it
i claw open the side of my face and i don't need it, i don't need any of it
i need to smell blood, to touch it, taste it
i tripped and scraped my knee open and let me tell you i savored that moment
i hate getting hurt but i love the aftermath
sore throbbing fingers and blood in my mouth that's what i live for
jesus bled from every pore and i envy him
i'm a monster but the only one i'm killing is myself so it doesn't really matter
i don't really matter
maybe if i scratch enough i'll dig a better person out of this skin and maybe they won't smell like death
maybe they will be whole and maybe they'll be able to stand it
one, two, three new scabs on my shoulders, my neck, my face
one, two, three scars on my arms, my legs,  my back
i'm no vampire but i still need blood on my hands and it's sure as hell not innocent blood because it's mine
one of these days i'm going to fall apart and i mean that literally
gnawing on my own bones will take it's toll i'm going to collapse in a pile of my own organs and i'm going to enjoy it
it will smell like blood

step 1: de·ni·al
noun
the action of declaring something to be untrue.
i thought about sending you an email today.
i got through four drafts before i quit.
i haven't talked to you in three months. i haven't deleted your messages in three months. i haven't stopped thinking about you in three months. my heart is still synced with yours. it stopped beating 131,487 minutes ago. please leave a message after the beep.

step 2: an·ger
noun
a strong feeling of annoyance, displeasure, or hostility.
i'm glad you're gone. you were a house but you were never a home for me. i've moved three times since i left.
you shoved your fingers down my throat and left me retching in the snow, excuses tripping on their way out of your cherry bitten lips.
you made me your slaughterhouse, blood on my hands and heart.
i am made of too many things, a conglomeration the size of a galaxy, thirty people sewn into my skin. there is a hole in my chest the size of your fist. please leave a message after the beep.

step 3: bar·gain
verb
negotiate the terms and conditions of a transaction.
(maybe if i had loved you a little less you would have learned to love me back)

step 4: de·pres·sion
noun
severe despondency and dejection, typically felt over a period of time and accompanied by feelings of hopelessness and inadequacy.
i spent more time thinking about you than i ever did about myself. i'm not sure if this is selfish or selfless and i'm not sure if i know the difference. i hung up on you once and you didn't speak to me for a week and i'm not sure if this is love or hatred and i'm not sure if i know the difference. i haven't spoken to you in seven months. please leave a message after the beep.

step 5: ac·cept·ance
noun
agreement with or belief in an idea, opinion, or explanation.**
you told me that acceptance was the same as tolerance.
i don't think i believe you.
i haven't spoken to you in twelve months.
please leave a message after the beep.

From sweet embrace to life all alone
I'm left to bleed out and to sleep by the phone
I don't want to live to become so old
That I can't feel that pain anymore

In your eyes I can see reflected back at me
All the images of gods that we pretend to be
When we keep a finger's hold on our own destiny
What is to keep us from letting it go?

And all I see are the blessings in front of me
Dangled far away but still close enough for me to breathe
The wonder and light of sugarplum fantasies
Of days I still remember

Falling in love is a dull spreading ache
And falling out is a warning that comes too late.

I don't know why I can't write anything today.
I am so ******* empty but my mind keeps slipping back to
you,
and I hate myself with a fervor
unmatched by any passion I've felt before and that is
terrifying.
You aren't allowed to leave without saying
you'll come back,
you aren't allowed to love her without killing your love for me first.
Why do you do this to me?
Why do I do this to myself?
Honestly, you're innocent but
I need somewhere to place the guilt other than
myself
because my arms are full and
I cannot carry anymore.
I haven't seen you in weeks.
We used to talk,
you used to love me,
now do you even ******* care?
Do you ever think of me anymore?
Because I think about you all the time.
You are the reason I've been hungover the past two days,
you are the reason my friends are worried about me,
you are the reason I can't turn in any of the poems I write to my English teacher.
I do not love you like you want me to,
at least I don't think I do,
but I do love you,
oh god I do,
but what the hell does that even mean? All I know is
today I felt like crying because of all the things you've said to me
and the only thing I knew would make it better would be if
you said my name.
You didn't.

He gave me his
jacket
and it smelled like
him and smoke
and I knew why
but I wore it anyway.

The day he
disappeared
it was cold outside so
I wore his jacket
and
wiped my nose on the sleeves.

We got the call from the
psych ward
three days later and I couldn't
see him
or
hold him
so I buried my face in his jacket
even though it smelled like smoke
and I knew why.

I kept it
stuffed in the corner between
the wall and my bed
so on the nights when I
missed him too much to sleep
I could wrap myself in it
even though
it didn't smell like him anymore.

When he came back
a month later
and I saw him in
a crowded hallway
he looked at me and
smiled
when he noticed I was wearing
his jacket
and he
hugged me
so it smelled like him again.

I still
wear his jacket
when I can't sleep at night.

I have had seventeen birthdays including the day I was born.
I have lived in three houses and two apartments, have had four dogs and five cats, have dislocated my left elbow twice.
I have kissed four boys and three girls, have been one boy's first kiss, one boy's first time, another boy's first "I love you", I have never touched him.
I have smoked marijuana twice and been caught once.
I have worn a bow tie three times, have been called a **** four, have hit someone for it once.
I have been a vegetarian for three years and have slipped and eaten meat five times.
I have been through the same divorce twice in one week because my mom thought she had changed her mind; I have never told her how much worse that made it.
I have tried to eat grapefruit twice since the night I regurgitated that flavor of *****, I have failed both times.
I have gone forty-two days straight without drinking alcohol.
I have woken up and mistaken morning breath for the aftertaste of beer too many times to count.
I have held three of my closest friends after they were touched without consent.
I have made the boy who convinced me to sext him even though he knew I was drunk apologize once; he never felt sorry.
I have heard the three words "I love you" from one boy, I had to tell him he didn't mean it four times, had to tell him not to kiss me six even though I wanted him to, reminded myself every time that he was on his tenth shot.
I have forty-eight visible scars on my body from the times it was too hard to love myself, have told three different therapists the same two things phrased differently every time: one, I'm sad, two, I don't know how to stop it.
I have cried three times in the past week.
One was over the three friends that I have held after they were touched without consent, one was over the boy who said he loved me, one was over the boy who convinced me to sext him even though he knew I was drunk.
I still talk to him five times a week, take one deep breath, count to three, and force myself not to pull away every time he touches me, spend the next eight minutes between classes trying to pull myself together, remind myself it was only one time.
I have not been alone with the boy who said he loved me in six weeks.
I have thought about kissing him every day for the past three-hundred and eight days.
I have had three dreams about him, each one recurring two, seven, or four times.
I have been reminded by strangers of the way he looks at me six times.
I have almost died once, drank four beers and seven shots of five assorted liquors, drug a razor across my skin eleven times, called three people for help, one answered.
I stopped trying to hide the scars on my wrist after thirty-four days of wearing sweaters in eighty-something degree heat, have seen twelve people stare at my arm, received disapproving looks from four of them, have never been asked for an explanation.
I have commented on how pretty the sun looks on the ten minute ride to school with my brother every morning for the past two weeks.
I have complimented at least one person a day every day for the past two years.
I have worn my favorite beanie at least sixty times in the past year and there is nothing wrong with that.
I laughed fifty-seven times yesterday.
I said "I love you" eleven.
I have chosen to be alive every day for five thousand, nine hundred, thirty seven days.
I have never made the wrong choice.

I was trying to write something including the line
it kissed with no desire to heal what it had broken
and so I wrote
it kissed with no desire to heal what it had broken
but I didn't know what
it
was so I changed
it
to
he
and I wrote that
he kissed with no desire to heal what he had broken
but I thought about
him
and I thought about what
he
had done and I thought about kissing
him
and the things that were broken but not healed and so I changed
he
to
I
and I wrote that
I kissed with no desire to heal what I had broken
and I payed attention to the broken pieces that
I
had created and the people that
I
had kissed and I thought about what
I
desired and never have
I
tried to heal what
I
have broken.