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.