Fists balled in the lunch room
Music in my ear telling me to F it all
Friends yelling their disappointment
Rising rage and hate
Don't tell me to eat
Dont tell me what you think about my mental illnesses
They are mine and you can't dictate them
They control me
Zoned out
Punch her in the face
Laugh at her on the floor
5'9 best friend on the floor by her 5'2 short *** friend
Snapps in the face
Wakes up
Shes still yelling at me
Just wishful thinking
I didn't snap
I wanna snap
Im going to snap

Something inside is
It's almost going to
There aren't words for the pull
about to Snap

Unknown explosion
Without explanation
Not sure how to loosen the threads
it's Breaking

What to do
Who's taking the bullet
My fault my bomb it doesn't turn off

sorry
It's going to hurt me
more then it already hurts you

never met a soft-button girl,
one I could keep in my pocket,
could fasten my shirt,
keep my jeans up,
on my hips.

never met a soft-button girl before,
only nylon string and elastic,
no good for stitching up wounds,
only good for lacerations—
she snapped,
again.

Shackled, and chained.
Yet,
I’ve never felt so free.
You’ve awakened this primal instinct in me.

Burned, and bruised.
Tormented, and used.
I'm yours to abuse.

I kneel,
At your feet,
Waiting for command.
Waiting for the slightest gesture granted from your hand.

I look down.
My hands in lap.
l am at your will,
Waiting for your finger’s snap.

With hair pulled back--
Gathered in your hands.

And cheeks warm--
Caressed by your voice.

Lips are wet--
Touched by yours.

Cleaning, and cooking.
Almost every day.
Folding, and preparing.
Doing whatever you say.

I'm yours;
I'm branded with your name.
I'm bonded to you,
No matter what,
And I stand unashamed.

My voice is not a font
My face is not pixelated
My life isn’t a snap
My emotions aren’t emoticons
My love isn’t a tap
My compliments aren’t comments
I am not down there,
but up here .

Tell me
What’s your endgame plan?
You snap your fingers
And I melt in your hand
Ashes to ashes
Dust to dust
I wish I
Could rescue us

It’s hard to be your own person,
to move your singular body in its own direction,
when every corner is already crowded by other thoughts.
Your limbs brimming with self-loathing again, brilliant.
Bubbles of spit boasting as they frame your thirsty lips.
You’re picking blood-stained fingernails with yellowing teeth that never knew the curling cradle of a smile.
At a loss for embrace,
Fake hair plastered by stained sweat to your forehead.
There, in the hollows of your forehead, permanent lines appear prematurely, paving the way for the end of your rabbit hole, spiraling.
Head so full of heavy thoughts that your necks snaps.