there are eighteen scars in a row above your wrist pallid and shameful and white as bones and you’ve counted them (still do) under the sheets with your lips moving around whispers
they remind you of empty hallways and the cacophony of your steps on blue linoleum and that you are alive the way your breath in pale clouds does on especially cold days
ii. (2011)
sometimes you dream of colours (soft and animate and comforting) but there is only red against the ivory of your wrist you’ve read the stories, you know about the wolves and what happens to girls in red
there are eighteen scars in a row and you breathe and you bleed and you keep counting
iii. (2012)
you don’t sleep much anymore you fill your nights with the synthetic emotion of words and films instead and bury yourself in their comfort their fabricated sadness
a substitute for everything you should have felt there is an emtpiness inside of you, a vast pale space inside your chest your breath can’t fill
iiii. (2013)**
you tell people you’re mending not even you know what that means sometimes you trace them (quietly and with closed eyes)
and there is only the white of your skin and the press of your fingertips and you breathe and your blood keeps pumping