My room is a mess and so is my life
The clothes on my floor are a metaphor for the
havoc in my head, weighing me in bed.
An endless supply of sweatshirts on my desk chair
remind me of the stress piling up due to
things to do, stuff to complete,
and quite honestly I’m ready to admit defeat.
Perfume bottles gathered and toppled over
they tempt me to try and disguise my chaos--
but I refuse, and then I lose them
so if I ever wanted to try, I can’t.
And instead of doing anything about it,
all I ever do is rant.

Looking in a mirror, I stare at a face that I don't know.
Looking around my room:
A hole in the wall
From a knife I almost
Drove inside of myself.
Scratches on my door
Pleas of help and reconciliation.
A bunny on my bed,
Stuffed with fluff... And my blades.
A mirror on the wall,
Almost covered with pictures of people
I HATE.
A bed with gashes
Again from my knife,
A dresser with a note inside
To all the people that find "me".
A blade in every drawer
Just in case I lose one.
Looking down at the pool of blood
Dripping from my hand
Falling to the ground
In an unconscious mess.
Looking in the mirror,
In a jacket tied tight,
Wondering "When will it end?"
Talking to the face I don't know.