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.

In the space of two hours i wrote

                        a suicide note,

                                         and a love letter.







I posted them the
                                                    love letter.

Dry heaving your sorrows
Past flooded gates of stress
Teary eyes and your runny nose
Won’t make those problems go away
Receive the truth
Speak only lies
Hush your own ****** fluid
Until it can be mistaken for silence
Relapse
A quiet lullaby
Of hungered dreams
That only makes me seem smaller
Problems, so many problems
You have one more to overcome