The beds of my nails are slowly turning lavender, 

cyanotic they call it. 

I want to whisper to them, 

promise that we will learn to breathe again.
But my lungs are uncertain of that truth,
and the blood does not tell where it hides precious oxygen from me.

I spend my nights laying on the floor. Feeling my heart beat,

the flood of blood through my body.
No one can explain why it races, 

why it thunders like derby horses from head to toes and back again. 

Insomnia sounds like an engine trying too hard to keep us alive, 

like heavy rain beating against capillary walls.

I’m purging liquid poison into the toilet, 

whispering your name like holy, 
like gospel, 

between gasps of breath even though you are far from me, 

And I know that you’ve long since forsaken me. 

Thats why I drink,
to swallow down the pain of missing you,

to slow burn deep in my stomach, 

to turn poison to blood, 

to turn myself numb. 

I wish this didn’t hurt,

even when I know I deserve this. 

The only good thing in my life has been reduced to memories, my tears, I tear into my flesh.
Maybe if I spill my poison blood I could create cure, 

or in the very least drain myself of this vicious viscous fluid and make amends.
I want to be the best I could for you
but I couldn’t even handle being myself.