Sometimes I will take ******* clad photos
and post them
just to reassure myself
that my body is truly there
and truly mine to behold
and touch
and gaze at
sometimes I'm called "cute" or "a ****"
but how am I a ****
when all I have given you is
sight
and not
touch

I want to be able to touch my own skin
and feel...
skin
not ghost stories
not scars
or fabric bound
so tightly that I can't move
I want to feel my hand
graze my arm
without that graze
skimming cold fragile
porcelain

I am tired of my thoughts
wrapping themselves
around my throat
cutting into my skin
my thoughts are a rope
that would string me
from an oak tree

Sometimes I run
with my shoes untied
and I race the world
because I love the way the
wind slapping my face
and the inevitable fall onto the concrete
makes me feel alive
because I do not feel
alive
can you see the ruby-crimson
spiderwebs weaved into my eyes
I know you can
and I only know that
because they stick out
like a dysmorphia on my skin
my mother asks me if I'm ******
and it's much simpler to agree
than to tell her I've been crying
because I don't have to explain
drug abuse
but emotions require an entire doctorate

Sometimes when the winds
shakes me and pushes me forward
I wish I was
a porcelain plate
and that I would
fall down and
shatter.