By the end of the tenth month,
I’d have cut myself at least ten times
On ten different nights.
Ten mornings I’d wake up and put
On a long sleeved shirt
And not because I was cold.
Ten bracelets would line my wrist
And I’d say that they matched my outfit.
Ten nights I’d cry myself to sleep
And wish that I was dead.
Ten mornings I’d wake up with my eyes
So red and swollen that ten people
Might’ve asked if I was okay
And ten times to those ten people
I’d say that I was just tired.
Ten Band-Aids would be laid to rest
Over my wounded skin.

And after the tenth month,
It would be November.