seven years old: the first time i felt the onslaught
of crippling sadness, inexplicable & heavier on my heart
than any childhood misfortunes had readied me for.  small body shaking,
pulse racing, convulsing with tears, i collapsed sobbing
into my mother’s lap.  she stroked my hair,
touched the wetness on my cheeks, asked
what i could possibly be so upset about?

i didn’t have an answer.

twelve years old i am sitting on my carpet playing with razors,
delighting in the heady rush of breaking skin & blood.
never before have i committed such deliberate sins
upon my body, knowing that acting out
virulent self-hatred
was not the way to deal
but this is the beginning of everything
that follows in its wake.
i am dousing my weeping wounds in rubbing alcohol
because it hurts me more.

fifteen years old, skipping breakfast,
tossing school lunches in the trash,
begging off dinner because i’m sick/my stomach hurts/
i don’t feel like eating/please don’t make me/
just leave me alone/
just leave me the **** alone.
learning to subsist on nothing,
taking the plunge down the rabbit hole,
headfirst,
just to see how far
it goes.

seventeen, rock bottom.  eighty-nine pounds,
a haphazardly placed collection of scars,
i cry every morning & night.  i am horrifically in love
& i’m killing him.  no amount of apologies can make up
for what i’ve done.

eighteen, the summer turns into a nightmare.  
i begin to forget things.  like how it used to be okay sometimes.
there are pills sleeping beneath my mattress again.
i contemplate killing myself every day,
decide i’m not worth the effort.
far more punishing to exist half-human.
far better to wreck myself beyond redemption.

look at me now, wearing a smile
that doesn’t quite fit my face.  i can pretend to be okay
most of the time, but my head,
my head is a warzone of agony,
high on anxiety, low on dopamine,
struggling to get by doesn’t begin to describe my days.

this is how i am &
i don’t know how to survive this.
i don’t know if i can live with myself.