That glass piece,
fitting so perfectly
into my palm.
Smooth, cold, round,
holding my hand tighter than any ex-lover before.
That ginger kiss upon my lips,
sending smoke to hug my lungs.

Those IV bags dripping of happiness,
shooting euphoria through my bloodstream.

Anything to keep me from feeling numb.
Anything to prolong my inevitable fall,
back to my own personal purgatory.

I am addicted to
rough *** and masochism.

I used to be addicted
to self-harm.

I learned to live without the feeling
of a blade against my skin,

but now I need the feeling
of warm hands against my skin
where my blade used to be.

I'm not recovering.
I'm still hurting myself.
all that changed is the weapon
that I choose to do it with.

don't you understand?
I am happy.

but your happiness
tastes like friendship and laughter,

and my happiness
tastes like antidepressants.

I’m so tired
of feeling so tired

even as a kid, I knew that
forever didn’t exist.
I pulled tulips from the earth
and brought them home with me,
but I wasn’t looking at the petals.
I was looking at the tiny hole
left behind in the soil
after the roots were ripped out.

it wasn’t about the
beautiful thing I had taken;
it was about taking something
from the planet that had
taken everything from me.

the tulips went into a vase and
I kept them, like any other kid.
but I wasn’t the kid
who marched in and proudly
showed them to their parents.
I didn’t show them to anyone.
I sat by the vase and
watched them rot.

they were my physical proof
that death is real,
evidence that my friend’s dog
did not run away to a butterfly farm,
and the old man down the road
did not mysteriously go to a better place.
they died, and they rotted.

I think about this often now.
I killed flowers not to admire them,
but to prove to myself that
even beautiful things can die.

I know how morbid that sounds,
but what you have to understand
is that my whole life had
revolved around death.

my childhood memories
were a sickening collection
of wilted flowers, of worms
burned into the concrete
after a storm, of rotting fruit
and swarms of flies.

my young mind showed me
the same images on repeat.
dead friends, dead relatives,
people who left me,
people who left this earth.

for my entire childhood,
I never got to stop seeing
lives that weren’t fully lived.

even as a kid, death didn’t faze me.
violence was nothing to me.
pain wasn’t fun, but it was tolerable.
even back then, I was numb.

I remember how being
so numb at such a young age
terrified my teachers and
scared my friends’ parents.

I didn’t know how
to explain that I was numb
because no matter what
horrors I was shown,
I had already seen worse.

I don’t know if I feel happy anymore,
but sometimes I don’t feel numb
and I call that happiness.
it’s more peace than happiness.
it’s more of a relief.
in these moments, I feel something
and I know that I’m still alive.
I must be alive
if I can still feel
…right?

when I get asked about my scars
and how I could possibly do something
so cruel to myself,
I want to say that
when I did it,
it wasn’t cruel.
I wasn’t trying to die.
I was trying to remind myself
that I’m not dead yet.

I’m a writer.
I’m supposed to be good with words,
and I am.
so why can’t I tell you how
I’m really doing?
why do I keep saying “I’m fine”
when I’m anything but fine?
why can’t I find the words to express
this feeling?

no,
it’s not a feeling.
it’s the lack of a feeling.

I haven’t learned
how to explain this yet.
I’ve spent years leaving and entering
this numbness,
over and over.
I think I’ve spent more time in it
than out of it.

I didn’t learn much, but
now I know that

the only thing worse
than feeling pain
is feeling nothing.

when I picked up my pen,
I wanted to write about
gray skies
and thunderstorms
and the sound of rain
and laughter
and splashing in puddles.

I wanted to write about
the hole he left in the wall
by the staircase,
and how it seemed so much bigger
than his fist.
I couldn’t believe he made such an impact
with one blow
before he walked away.
I couldn’t believe he made such an impact
by walking away.

I wanted to write about
cigarettes and smoke
and young men with blackened lungs
and why we love
the things that destroy us.

I wanted to write about
this numbness
and how I feel nothing
but everything
at the same time,
and how I’m not sure
which is worse.

I wanted to write about
your cologne
and your citrus-scented shampoo
and how the smell lingered
on my pillow
long after you left,
and how I found someone new
but still fell asleep
to the thought of you.

I wanted to write until
my fingers blistered
and began to ache,
and my demons fell
from my overflowing mind
and drowned in ink.

but when I picked up my pen,
I had shaky hands.

I sat there silently
and I trembled
and broke down
and let my tears fall,
and my thoughts did not stop
racing through my head

but none of them
managed to escape onto paper.

Physical death is permanent.
But emotional death,
(numbness, "feeling dead inside)
Is a starfish.
It can grow back
through a process called support