You, long ago, sutured the holes in your heart
with twine you braided from you own hair, you
dried your eyes on the soft part of your wrist and promised
that saltwater and daydreams would be the only things
you’d touch it with.

Trying to iron the wrinkles out of your skin has never worked before
and it won’t work now,
you know that,
but you have a steamer in your hand and a breach in your stitches,
so maybe it won’t be that way this time.

Emptiness is the only way you know how to be.
Or, maybe,
you thought you’d finally closed the hole
only to find that it was a shoddy job at best
and an act of sabotage at worse.

You know who the saboteur is. Don’t you?

The lump in your throat goes supernova, stealing
your breath.
Why can’t it take everything else, too?
You used to say you never cried but now there’s an ocean in your eyes
and sea levels are rising,

You are a mish-mash of messed up, mixed up metaphors and
whipstitches that are losing their stick,
rip them off one by one and see what happens,
but don’t you dare act surprised
when you don’t find anything inside.

Can you even bleed anymore? Answer honestly.
“The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again
and expecting different results.”
Einstein said that.
Well, you say he was wrong.

You know that’s not true. But you don’t know anything anymore, do you?

I’m used to pulling all-nighters.
I’m used to very little sleep.
It’s the story of every insomniac.
But when I take a hit or do a line,
I’ll be awake for days at a time,
staying high enough to chase awake sleep.
I am on my fourth day of a binge,
and sleep continues to evade.
I don’t know if it would be worse
if i simply wait out the comedown,
or if i continue my breakdown.

I repeat it. I repeat it. I repeat it. I repeat it.
I mean repetition prevents shock.
Repeat
I mean repetition prevents
What
So if I say I’m sad I’m sad I’m sad I’m sad I’m sad will I stop being surprised or ashamed
So ashamed
I mean repetition doesn’t prevent shock it creates boredom or expectancy in what you repeat
right?
So if my voice repeats my cries, my sadness,
Will I stop being surprised... I meant can I find a way for my family
Can I find a way for my family
Can I hide away from my family
Can I find a way for my family to expect that my suffering will never end?

What if my only progress has been my progression of regression

I am undoing myself again
The string once held now yanked from its place
Uprooting more then it’s existence
Unraveling each thing
I thought saved me

The remnants
Not even balled up on the floor
But sprawled across each crevice
The light invasively seeping in with authority
Subtly forcing each fiber into compliancy

But not permanently

Brief whiff
and insanity
I drift
and calamity

I know I promised not to,
but man,
am I bad at keeping promises.

sometimes, i miss being sick.

i miss the feeling of my sharp ankles on the cold scale. the scale has been hidden from my judgemental eyes.

i miss the automatic caloric calculator, the blinding neon-sign. it's still there, always and impossible to ignore, like television subtitles. but i eat anyway.

i miss the feeling of my jeans becoming baggier around pencil legs. yesterday i had to go to american eagle to buy the same pair of ripped jeans, two sizes larger than what i was a year ago.

i miss the blue polka-dot Tupperware in the farthest corner of my closet that i used to erase the shame of feeling full. i can't have containers anywhere in my bedroom.

i miss the feeling of drinking so much water that my body becomes a shallow pool that my insides float in. i have a limit on the amount of fluids i can consume in a day.

i miss walking into a meal knowing exactly how to eliminate all of it, without question. now when i do behaviors i feel the shame of my whole family in my chest.

i miss karaoke nights. i can't sing any of the songs i did in the hospital. it just feels wrong.

i miss sitting in a circle of other sick girls and forgetting, for a moment. they're in different places all over the world, enjoying life as recovered anorexics.

i miss staying up late talking to my roommate and questioning whether recovery is worth it, or even possible. she's in california with her girlfriend, enjoying being alive.

i miss licking salt of ice cubes. everything is locked into safes.

but mostly, i miss you. you're gone.

.

Sometimes when life is harder than it needs to be and my lungs are filled with tv static and all the words I’ve choked down over the years I yearn for the feeling of a blade across skin. I can’t help but look at faded pink scars with envy over a time I could get away with opening my veins as a way to cope. The smell of blood makes me sick, reminds me of a time I was worse off than I am now. When I couldn’t go more than a few hours without draining my body dry. But a sick part of me misses it. My brain longs for one more chance to feel the sting of metal across thin skin. I miss having something physical to bring me back to being alive. When my brain gets foggy and I don’t remember how it feels to be myself I miss having a way to clear the smoke from behind my eyes. Self destruction was my better half. When I was hurting myself I was a better daughter. A more attentive friend. I’m only my best for others when I’m destroying myself.