A sense of fleeting,
feet planted firmly on the ground,
but my mind is abysmal.
Sometimes-
it's a whisper of my mother's voice,
or one of the five psychiatrists who seemed uninterested.
It was the comfort in darkness,
becoming the lore of my life.

There was comfort in wanting to die,
I tightly grasped onto the concept of survival.
How we became enemies;
never seeing eye to eye.

I love it,
my ability to control the pain I feel-
how little, how less
I can make myself hurt.
Although, I'd refrain from calling myself a *******.

I've gained no pleasure in harming myself,
undeserving, unworthy of all the blood I've lost.
There's no notable war,
when the cause is in my veins.

Gauze I've had around my wrists,
felt comforting,
keeping in the sickness,
I dreamed would drip down my wrist.

Doing this to myself,
I'm no *******.
Allowing myself to be chaotic in how my emotions were expressed.

I know,
it's a cry for help,
but I'm left wondering-
do I want to be helped?

I've become immune to the numbness,
a damaged girl as they all catch up,
comparing scars.

I can be who you want me to be,
carve a smile on my face,
I can be who you want me to be,
I can be happy.