i yearn for control,
take it into my own hands.
i control the lack of food,
let only my own metal draw red.
‘why would someone do that to themselves?’
i truly don’t understand their lack of understanding,
for it is oh so simple.
there’s no choice.
when the thoughts in your head grow too loud,
they break out,
morph into a multitude of monsters.
whether it be my blade - my oldest friend - or the scale, a newer addition.
surely i have developed Stockholm syndrome,
how else do you make sense of the
comfort, peace, and familiarity
found with my monsters?
thy blade only does showcases my deterioration, it in itself is of no real harm.
that, i must tell myself.
my monsters mean well, surely.
they only mean to help.
i’m begging for the next
“u good?”,
because maybe this time,
i’ll have the courage for honestly.
maybe this time,
my thought may finally
lose.
a long shot,
i’m aware.
but a shots better than a cut any day,
so much nicer,
quicker and simpler.
what a way to go out,
stain the floor forevermore.
really it’s a question of what hue
will coat it for eternity.
royal, majestic maroon,
or busy mush
from deep within my “brain”.
miss having one of those.
