Cold bathroom tiles
press against my face
nausea, regret, shame, guilt
I lie in a pool of thoughts,
not blood
because it's not liquid
but invisible words that pour
out of my veins
and form puddles of paragraphs
growing on the floor
Around my wrists and up my arms
I've transcribed my pain in ink
but it smudges now against
uneven grout
The vocabulary of my anxiety
I've tried so hard to conceal
flows freely
My biggest fear:
that someone will find me
drowning in subconscious
only to decide that
I'm not worth saving.