darling, i.
i intend to die in the center of your palm as the contours of your skin hold me so dearly like your mother's fine china and the sweetness of her knuckles kissing your skin.
hear the mocking laughter of silence as no one comes to your aide.

however
                    i am less than the songs you listen to at three a.m. in the morning when you're drowning in your own pool of desperation to get away from the monsters in your head that keep you awake like a passionate lover.
but i am also more than the sharp blades you keep stashed beneath a pile of clothes in your closet. i am more than ******* that meets everything you eat as if they were neighbours and purging was their way of saying "hello".
i am more than the numbers on your weighing scale. i am more than the days
you spend your time sleeping in bathroom floors and getting comforted by the walls that never seem to like you and instead of them closing in, they back out. they back out and give you more space. more space for emptiness to pick you up only to throw you back on the floor even more severely than depression did.

m.j.