I harbor my growing bones here,
then burn them each night in the wastebasket.
I stack the pens.
I wipe away the ash.
I make sure my desk looks like a stranger lives there.
Because a stranger doesn't shed skin
in a house that belongs to someone else.
When I was fourteen,
the thing under my mattress was sharp.
It was a secret,
a dual-edged urge—
a metallic sigh bleeding thoughts onto a stained floor.
Now, I am older.
The thing hidden in the drawer is a notebook.
It is just ink.
It is just me.
They call it healing.
But the shredded fingertips hiding it move the exact same way.
The panic in my chest still screams the exact same way.
I traded the blade for a poem,
but I am still tucked under the bed.
I am still that child
who has to apologize for bleeding.
May 16
May 16, 2026 at 11:26 AM UTC
I harbor my growing bones here,
then burn them each night in the wastebasket.
I stack the pens.
I wipe away the ash.
I make sure my desk looks like a stranger lives there.
Because a stranger doesn't shed skin
in a house that belongs to someone else.
When I was fourteen,
the thing under my mattress was sharp.
It was a secret,
a dual-edged urge—
a metallic sigh bleeding thoughts onto a stained floor.
Now, I am older.
The thing hidden in the drawer is a notebook.
It is just ink.
It is just me.
They call it healing.
But the shredded fingertips hiding it move the exact same way.
The panic in my chest still screams the exact same way.
I traded the blade for a poem,
but I am still tucked under the bed.
I am still that child
who has to apologize for bleeding.
