Was I born with cracks in my foundations?
Chips and dents on my skin that expose it for the cheap knock off material I am built with.
Like off brand toys and faulty electronics my joints loosen and my capacity to function fail at the slightest of pressure.
My cracked and sanded down skin letting all who approach know that I am not a premium person, that I am not worth the price of admission to get to know.
My arms shake and composure fails at the most simple of tasks, like a battery that constantly needs to be on charge I sit and stare at the walls of my room as the list of current tasks mount up and I know I am not good enough to complete the things I was made for.
Off brand person of faulty parts, flaking skin and breaking arms of a person poorly built, of a tool unfit to fill the task it was created.
Do not take pity on my poor design, pay out a price to let me shine, I will only further my disappointment claims "I am destined for failure I warned you it would be this way"
So I tell all now before inviting me in, you see the cracks in my porcelain skin. I am not a damaged and beautiful soul. I've not dealt with hardship and been made whole. I'm a faulty, poorly made broken thing, take heed when my loose parts and damaged body come into frame and move over to a person made to last.

“I’m not okay.”

There, I said it out loud.
Is that supposed to make me feel better?

You keep telling me to
get over it
or if it’s that bad then why don’t I
just get help?

You make it seem like it’s some kind of
miracle cure
to talk with a therapist once a week
when in reality
the healing takes forever.

And the pain just goes on
and on
like on repeat.

“Therapists are expensive,” you sigh
like my life was cheap??

Doing recreationals under winter under your dim lights
Within the house leaning sideways, deep in the basement
Drinking twice our size in sweet white,
whatever cheap wine
With my humming lips, bless your pale hips in a headspin
You say, "Choke me out."
And when I squeeze, you scream