somehow all my poems turned into suicide notes  
sometimes I think death follows me everywhere
it's like the wind blows and surrounds me like a tornado and I'm being thrown in every direction and the wind will not stop until it has destroyed everything, including me
it's like my room is constantly on fire and I'm surrounded by smoke and I'm supposed to stop drop and roll into the grave
it's like your hands are over me and your suffocating me and I can't breathe
it's like a call for help but I'm in a room with deaf people
it's like I'm finally opening up and asking for help but everyone is mute
it's like no one can be sad just poetically sad
I can write on paper that I want to **** myself and people call it poetry
and all my suicide notes are being turned into poetry

I think eight is my lucky number
eight lies all within eight months
or maybe eight is my unlucky number
it feels like I've been surrounded by your negativity for eight straight years
being around you was like playing Russian roulette with a loaded gun
if I made one wrong move or said one wrong word it would trigger you to **** us both
I had to tip toe around the sleeping monster for years  
for years I had to fake so many smiles to please you
all your problems were also my problems if you got knocked down the next thing I knew I was right beside you
it seems like I was bleeding more than you it's like I was a bruise that never seemed to fade
one day I knew I was done with these games I knew I had to take control of the gun and wake the monster
it's like I unleashed a herd of buffalos because who knew I wanted to be my own person
you would have thought you were a magician pulling all your tricks on me to try and win me over
you played nice and showered me with empty apologies
then you turned cold and let the ice freeze over your heart
you threw hateful words in my direction trying to hit me with every sharp dagger
you played *****, tossing rocks at my window when all I wanted was a break
you would have thought that I would have broke under all the pressure you put on me over these years
even though it seems I'm free of your deadly habits I sometimes still feel a tight pull in my chest of all your lies your fed to me trying to take over me
never would I think that eight months  later I'm still afraid to turn corners because I think you might be there

I count the scars on my stomach
twelve
reasons why you left me
I made myself such a beautiful home out of you
do you remember when my home burnt down?
if I think hard enough I can still feel the way I did that day
the scars feel like open flesh I can feel the heat against my skin and nothing matters anymore
I turned to alcohol and razors because I don't know if I'm trying to numb the pain or end myself all together
people say "don't **** yourself over a boy because he will bring another girl to your funeral"
it's funny because that other girl was there the whole time
my life is like a walking funeral I keep seeing strangers crying everywhere
but maybe I'm the one who's actually crying
I look into the mirror and I don't even recognize myself
maybe I'm the stranger who keeps crying maybe that's why I hear hushed voices everywhere I turn
no one wants to talk to the sad girl, not even you
I keep seeing black everywhere i try to open my eyes and it's like I'm opening them into an endless black hole
there's black everywhere there's black around you too
maybe the black swallowed you and that's why you left me
or maybe there's more than twelve reason why you left me or was I simply just counting scars?

sometimes I think about how this time last year I drew you from memory every time I closed my eyes
but if you asked me to draw you now I would forget how to pick up a pencil

suddenly my poems stopped rhyming and I stopped counting my stanzas
and suddenly you stop calling
suddenly the marks on my wrists aren't scars anymore, they're open wounds
suddenly the world is crumpling around me and I'm afraid to touch you I'm so afraid you'll slip right between my fingers
suddenly you're gone so fast I don't know if I just imagined you
suddenly they aren't 2 am thoughts anymore they are all the time thoughts
and suddenly all my poems aren't love poems anymore

they call it self harm like you are the one hurting yourself. I can tell you that six months ago I was not the one carving hate into my skin. but people don't want to hear that. people don't want to hear that my skin has been razor free for half a year because that would mean razors have touched it. I know this because I told my best friend about my hobby and they are not my best friend anymore. people only want to be friends with survivors. no one wants to be around long sleeves regardless of the weather. no one wants to be around a rain cloud on a sunny day. no one wants to go on a drive with you if you always end up at the same bridge. you have to learn how to be your own best friend. you have to learn to put the razor down. you have to learn how to love yourself. you have to learn that scars heal and people change. six months ago I did not know this. I've learned I've changed and so can you.

I think I've gone mad
I only wear my seatbelt on days you call and you haven't called in months
I keep running my hands over things you've touched because I just want to be closer to you
but my bedsheets smell too much like you so I sleep on the floor
the last time I was in the coffee shop you loved I bought two instead of one
I know you're sleeping better now without me tracing your skin like I'm reading braille
I know I should stop calling but your voicemail seems to be my favorite song
sometimes I have dreams where I throw myself off cliffs just to see if you would catch me
other times I pay someone to **** me just to see if you would cry
I seem to be seeing you on the back of every milk carton
every amber alert I hear your name
somehow every time I speak the only words I can say are come back
I know you've said you're sorry and I know I wanted to say stay but my mouth just said I'm fine
I'm not fine because I know I've gone mad