god it would be nice to be so ignorant
it'd be really nice to ask that
it would be and so
i'm a little envious.

and, yeah, it's my fault.
i should have foreseen this.
but, by god, use some common sense.
everyone's staring now.

at the spot where my wrists meet the table nightly,
where the bruises line up almost methodically
like the kids in the courtyard.

at the white traces on my forearms,
like maybe i scratched too hard and one nail got caught
like maybe i pick the sharpest nail and rake my skin

at the scabs where my cuticles should be
because i couldn't focus today
i couldn't breathe and that tiny pull and that trickle of blood
made my lungs restart

and i feel like i should thank you
and i'm truly glad you don't know what you're talking about
but until then, please keep your mouth shut,
before you cause any further damage.

8 months clean, relapsing would be collapsing.  

A locked bathroom door, the voices yelling - no, screaming.
I hear my mother running up the stairs, the pounding of her footsteps mimics the pounding inside my head, it's war.

I can feel blood dripping down onto the rest of my body.
The tears stream down my face as I try to let my head create a feeling of melancholy

There's sirens outside now, I know they're for me. You can see the neon purple lights from the window. I'm just waiting, waiting for death to set me free.

On the stretcher with gauze covering up the masterpiece I made to what use to be pristine skin, I close my eyes, reminding myself to stay awake. my hope stretching thin.

The voices of my neighbors, overcome the sounds of mom's sobs. I wish my own mind didn't lock me chambers.

****** folds of paper,
Bind with a sewing needle,
And of course, it needed a cover page-
A drawing in crayon,
Because the little child in me found joy in drawing with crayons.
Most of the pages were little glimpses of life.
As the pages passed, drawings appeared-
Drawings of what I thought I looked like,
-A strange way to capture self-hate,
Some pages carried words that would-
Make you feel like they were pressing down on your chest,
And you couldn’t really breathe.
-Suffocating
If I read them out loud, I would burst.
Some pages had tissues speckled with blood-
Like little red polka dots.
They were words I couldn’t express on paper.
I put them in a little box,
The world will never see it.
It wasn’t meant to be published.

i guess you didn’t mean what you said
cause it’s 7am and i’m hanging by a thread
last weekend, your bride
now nothing but a downside.