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.