in ninth grade i came to school
everyday
with cigarette smoke
embedded in my clothes
i wanted so badly for
someone, anyone
to ask why i smelled like
a cancer ward.

i would write poetry
about how much i hated myself
thinking it would mean
anything to anybody
all the sharp parts of
my body condensed
into shot glasses
overflowing and draining at the same time
the chipped parts leaking *****
onto my bedroom floor
that i'm afraid
my mom will smell

when i was a preteen
i promised myself,
a pact only i can legitimize,
that if i wasn't happy by 18
i would **** myself.
i am a breath away from that
moment
within arm's reach of the
edge of something--
whether it's a
swimming pool's side
or a cliff's face
is up to me i guess.

here's the thing no one
told me about life:
nobody notices your pain
no matter how much you want
them to,
and if they do
they do it wrong.
you won't be able to find
the words in the
moment they ask.
you'll freeze up
and your only language will be
cigarettes
blood stains
and a faint smell of *****.
it will seem romantic at the time
but it is really, really not.

all it does is hurt and hurt
and hurt and hurt.
you will be scared when
she notices the blood
on your thighs/hands/heart
and the black in your
lungs/soul
and you will cry. it will hurt.

but hey,
so does everything else.

and if there's
anything i've learned
by now, at the
precipice of 18,
it's that
cigarette smoke,
the blood and *****,
the black;
it all comes out in the wash.