i carve memories from my arm
as though i am uprooting
plants who got the rot.
blood trickles through the word,
the calligraphy ink we  ‘borrowed’
while still in our sober days.
i wish it didn’t have to end with
glass and tears and flickering vital signs.
but he pulled life from me even when
i wasn’t holding a blade to my wrist.
he made me feel as if i was always
secondary in every way possible.
oh god how i scratch open healing wounds
and pretend that his friendship didn’t once
keep me from jumping out of my window.