cold tiles press against her cheek
***** on her fingers, in the toilet bowl, in her mouth
a broken promise on her lips.

shush,
don't wake them up.

how could she find the words to say it?
                                                                                                 say what?
"i need help."

                                        only people with real problems need help.

being unkind to yourself is second nature
wrap it up, in gauze and bandaids
and little lies you tell yourself,
because you can't admit you're not doing better.

admit to who? yourself?

she knows it's ****** up the way she lives
with her screwdriver-sharpener craft
and her fingers down her throat like a curse
the sour taste that never quite leaves her mouth.

but maybe ****** up is what she deserves?