TW: Self-harm
•••
I’ve never looked as good in diamonds
as I have in red. Blood:

a string of pearls around my wrist.
Crimson lace—garter caressing thigh.

Diamonds don’t shine in sorrow
the way steel does.

For the record:

no, not everyone has a “little bit of OCD”
nor can you “almost” have OCD.

You either ******* have it or you don't.

Really, it’s blasphemous--

to use the sacred art of poetry
to gatekeep an illness you are
fortunate you don't have
all for the sake of clout.

ADHD forgets to feed the fish
and when she finally remembers,
it is dead at the bottom of the tank.

Well, I suppose dead is an understatement:

a mossy film embalms the body
(at least what is left of it)
its suction-cup maw putrefied
as it suckles the sickle of death.

Half of the body is there.

Half of it has disintegrated.

Imagine existing nowhere and everywhere
all at once; microscopic remnants
defile every particle of water long after
the rest of you has vanished.

Can beauty exist in the aftermath of sorrow?

You don’t really care for poetry,
do ya?

Sometimes, pretending not to be sad
is easier than telling people you’re sad.

Maybe I don’t want success
maybe I just wanna get ******!

I’ve never been someone’s “everything”
and that really ******* hurts sometimes,
ya know?

I only know what it means to miss someone; never have I known what it means to be missed.

When I uproot the hairs sprouting from the glabella
and strip my cupid’s bow of its wildflowers,
Frida Kahlo writhes in her grave.

She haunts me.

“You are beautiful.”
[unibrow and all]

“You are beautiful.”
[moustache and all]

“You are beautiful.”
[sadness and all]