I don’t know what’s wrong with me.
There you are,
someone who could
could teach me
what it feels like
to love myself,
and yet
I hold you in my hands
and I ruin
the chance you
hold out to me
so willingly.
I feel so damaged
that the pieces of me
that still cling
sickeningly to my ribs
don’t feel like me anymore,
But tiny monsters
that do nothing
but hurt
everything I touch.
My throat burns
with the words
that I don’t say,
thoughts so loud
that sometimes I want
to scratch them violently
into my wrists
so you can see them
and I won’t drown
in them anymore.
But I won’t.
And I can’t.
And if you don’t
get away now,
you will be nothing
but a broken memory
beneath my feet
that feel like they were made
to walk over you.
May 31, 2020
May 31, 2020 at 11:04 PM UTC
I don’t know what’s wrong with me.
There you are,
someone who could
could teach me
what it feels like
to love myself,
and yet
I hold you in my hands
and I ruin
the chance you
hold out to me
so willingly.
I feel so damaged
that the pieces of me
that still cling
sickeningly to my ribs
don’t feel like me anymore,
But tiny monsters
that do nothing
but hurt
everything I touch.
My throat burns
with the words
that I don’t say,
thoughts so loud
that sometimes I want
to scratch them violently
into my wrists
so you can see them
and I won’t drown
in them anymore.
But I won’t.
And I can’t.
And if you don’t
get away now,
you will be nothing
but a broken memory
beneath my feet
that feel like they were made
to walk over you.
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