He punched me last week
And told me that he was joking and that's between me and him
My friends saw and helped me break it off yesterday
Today is my eighteenth birthday
And I am nothing like my mother

The night isn't gentle anymore.
Its darkness has a vice-like grip,
shattered, unwelcome
on her fragile throat,
leading to a crimson door,
full of destructive, intrusive thoughts about
sleeping
with eyes never wanting to open
again.

The night no longer offers rest
for her shattered, melancholical, heavy head
to gently abide the terrors of
turning silver to red on her already scarred flesh,
beucase life seems to stay
just like that.

© fey (30/12/20)

i can still hear you whispering in my ear-
raspy and deep because you smoke two packs of marlboros
every day.

when i come to visit home,
you still look at me like you're scared.
i think it's because you know the power that i hold.

you know that i have had every chance
to tell these people what you did to me-
and i chose not to

not for you
for me.

I cannot seem to think on my own.
People think for me and I feel alone.
But without them I would not be around.
I hear a voice in the background.
I say background but do I mean it?
I don't, its probably just another memory slip.
Wait, I do mean it.
But instead, it's all in my head.
My best friend is my bed.
I gotta get in the booth and get emotions recorded.

Everything is distorted.
Things start to move.
I become someone else.
A new person. A new identity.
New everything.  
The whole works. I wish i was dead.
They tell me it's in my head.
I'm gonna survive. I know it look like I'm being lazy.
I promise I'm trying, my head is crazy.
I know I'm not but they don't.
And I know they won't.
When episodes occur,
I just lay in bed,
Still staying in my head.
I do nothing but pick it back up.
Whether it be crystal or my double cup.
My person calls this
Type of cycle insanity.
I love her, my family, she is all I have.
Without the love,
I would be gone.
Without the love,
There would be no me.
I need her just as much
As she needs me.
Without the love,
I do not thrive.
Without the love,
I will not survive.
Without the love,
You can push and shove
And not get anywhere.
I'm so lost in my head,
I don't even know my own way out.
I only know the way to my bed.
Momma knows best as I lay my head to rest.

i wanted to write about
how my fingernails take off my skin at night
or how i leave bruises in places i hate

i still want to scream about how i don't use knives, anymore
and tell you all the lies that let me get away with my own
self destruction

all these scars that have explanations
i'm nearly exploding
and the words will surely splatter on the wall



but i don't want you to mistake a poem
for an instruction manual

it has been seven months since my ****.
it has been seven months since my ****.

every day, it gets worse.
every day and those after, i am once again told,
“it’s your fault”
i know, every day,
that they are not wrong.

it has been seven months since my ****.
it has been seven months since my ****.

every day and those after,
i lose myself,
more and more.
i’m rotting and
disgusting.
i am lost
and i am scared.

it has been seven months since my ****.
it has been seven months since my ****.

every day and those after,
i am reminded.
“he felt more anxiety than you ever will,”
she says,
“they left him waiting, thinking his life was over,
for an entire weekend.”
a weekend? ha, amature.
i’ve been knowing.
my life is over, and has been
for seven months.
he got off free,
i got a life sentence.

it has been seven months since my ****.
it has been seven months since my ****.

be careful- don’t forget!!
he is not a ******,
you are not a victim.
he’s just a boy,
in the moment.
you know how they are.

it has been seven months since my ****.
it has been seven months since my ****.

maybe i’m just lying.
what if i’m wrong?
and i’m just
a product of what has already happened to me?
since it is my fault,
since i still don’t know how to take accountability,
maybe it’s not even real.

it has been seven months since my ****.
it has been seven months since my ****.

in church, they talk about ****** purity.
am i going to hell for this?

it has been seven months since my ****.
it has been seven months since my ****.

his hands are still all over me.
all
over
me.
i tried to scrub it all away,
the flesh came off my body.
he still found a way
to write his name
on
my bones.

it has been seven months since my ****.
it has been seven months since my ****.

i can’t look in the mirror anymore.
it’s never me.
every time i look,
it’s always someone new.
a grotesque figure.
i can’t stand to see myself.

it has been seven months since my ****.
it has been seven months since my ****.

my face often becomes numb.
i throw my hands under boiling water and still feel
nothing.

seven months.
that’s
212 days,
5088 hours.
i don’t know who i am
anymore.

instead of broken plates and dripping sinks,
tonight
my self-shame is visible in the way
the extract burns my tongue so prominently
that noodles feel like lemons and
taste like the nothing
that i'm so desperately trying to escape.
processed pasta and citrus-scented breath
have me gulping,
as the the air that reaches my chest drowns
in the same acidity as the rage that i feel.
this is a different numbness than what i felt when
i created alternative versions of myself,
just to run from the version of everyone else around me.
i guess, what, all my efforts have been forsaken, and did any of
it matter in the ******* first place?
-i guess i lied when i said
there would be no dripping sinks-

the sting of a shot of lemon extract
sets my tongue and throat on fire,
but at least it's not a raging **** in my arm
that would scar and
inevitably make me feel
even worse about my
body image.
maybe the flame in my throat will roast my
vocal chords
and i can
read poetry
83% more aggressively than i already do.
-sorry, i didn't text back immediately; i was wondering when to start wallowing in self-shame-

Let me down, lay me low.
I'm not above, but crying on the floor.
I'm feeling quite sad,
Mixed up, and dead.
Just **** me, please,
And make the pain end.

I am a wreck-
A hopeless one at that.
I feel like I'm losing
A battle of loose ends.
If I don't stop soon,
I'll just wind up dead:
Suicide to make it end.

My wits are not with me;
They're lying on the floor.
Please drag me on the ground
And hang me by the door.
This war I fight,
I'm fighting alone in.
I know that I will never win.

Listen yo me just one more moment,
You're the last person who could save me...
Or ignore my pain,
And let me own it.