black and blue,
adorned
by ugly welts
and purple bruises
the naked eye
cannot perceive.
i keep picking
at invisible scabs,
addicted
to the rush—
the self-hate
a shotgun blast
burying pellets
like tiny graves
in the remnants
of my face.

i grit tombstone teeth
and keep peeling back
sundered-earth skin—
badlands flesh,
bones of scattered stones.
stamina sapped
by anxiety's quicksand
swallowing me whole.
each line of red
remains a white-hot
and unfortunate
reminder i haven’t died
just yet.

i’d be the first to agree:
asking for help
takes courage and strength.
walking this path alone
is the coward’s way.
misery may love
company, but i choose
to stay in solitude.
i may be lonely,
but at least
i have the luxury
of making my own mistakes.