a heartbroken child will never let go.

here i remain:
i am a ghost more often than a human being. i am aspartame: a sickly sweet substitute for the real thing, i am a make-believe fictional character crafted out of delusion and vice.

and i wish i could say,
i am numb.

i cradle my sadness against my chest like a broken doll
and i am ten years old, kicking and screaming and crying

baby girl grew up like a firework,
spinning, exploding in blinding lights,
floating through months and years like a plastic bag in a storm.

(i have not let go)

i must have found god in the crusty tiled floor
i must have bathed in absolution as bile ran from my lips.

i surrendered to his mercy, wrote prayers in my skin
and drank the blood of the everlasting covenant.

under fluorescent lights,
i decorated my skull with thorns.

i dug the nails into my palms and pleaded to be saved.

i’m not naive enough to compare myself to a rose,
whose soft petals and curves prevail beyond its thorns.

i’m not a flower.
i’m not sweetness,
or supple colors,
or life.

i am a mess of stems and spines, sharp angles and twisted roots,
and i will damage those who get close enough to touch.

i am senselessly cruel,
and sabotaging.
an aimless collection of failures and secrets,
****** towels and bruised knees.

i am four in the morning,
thrashing and screaming and weeping.
i am waking up still drunk,
i am an ache that never passes.

i am love, but not the wonderful kind.

i am selfish vices,
i am indulgence and self-denial.
and sometimes,
as the light of morning appears,
i can’t imagine what i’ve done
or where i’ve been.