fingers ice cold
identity pinned on arbitrary digits
spilling the rotten flowers from her insides
counting pumps of panic juice
one, two, three. not enough.
she scrubs until her hands are red and raw.
four, five, six. they're not clean enough just yet.
waking up freezing and covered in sweat,
voice filling up volumes,
feeling every person who has ever
touched her skin.
sitting and shaking in spanish class,
quietly looking up the number of sleeping pills she needs
to get into her wretched body
in order to disappear forever.
craving the feeling of the cold blade on her hot skin
the red ribbons erupting onto her sheets
blinding anger, sadness, grief turns to
physical pain
staring at "severely underweight bmi" girls
scribbling on her injured wrist what she needs
to get to that point. she's almost there.
**** yourself. **** yourself. **** yourself, she writes.
**** yourself. **** yourself. **** yourself. **** yourself.
one day, she breaks,
dying a thousand deaths as sirens wail
peeling the tape off the IV they attached to her vein
hearing her mother cry
liver damage. severe blood loss. hallucinations. stitches necessary. psych ward? she's convulsing. must be in shock.
finding herself surrounded by broken girls and boys
in a white-walled facility
made for lunatics, just like her.
smiling through session after session until they say,
she's ready.
scraping through as she plans
how to keep the dead flowers just for herself.
months later, finding herself
in another home for lunatics
tiny quiet shaking girls just like her
being fed sugar water through her nose
on her eighth day, saying
a single first word to her therapist.
okay.
sharing a room with a wrinkly zucchini of a girl
turning pink and crying when
the soft soul walks in the room,
finally giving her a beautiful flower to hold.
all her hidden blossoms spilling out of her chest
ugly, shameful plants finally revealed
for the first time in many moons,
she's no longer ashamed of them.
falling in love with the girl two doors over,
erupting into giggles
sneaking around the milieu wearing
rose coloured-glasses,
fingers intertwined.
sitting in a circle of winter girls,
our flowers resting on our laps,
our fingers warmed by
the touch of one another.

There used to be butterflies
living inside my chest,

but they turned into bats
when it got dark

The bats fed on my blood,
and my chest was their cave

There used to be orchids
blooming,
flourishing,
above my ears and to my short hair

But now I am dead,
the weeping orchid bled

As it withered upon my grave,
and emitted the scent of death and I

Its decayed petals dropped,
like blood from cut veins

The corpse flower,
scentless bloom of death belongs

for a thalassophobic like me
drowning never sounded so good

I write to ease my pain.
Ink flowing, not my blood.
It does not feel as good.
Imagine, what if it did?

TW//SUICIDE
I think about his death a lot. They said i should write when i feel things, write write, just write until all the feelings are passed onto the sheet. But that day, when i discovered, i didn't, i just couldn't. I was just paralyzed, looking at the screen of my laptop. I stared at the word. Suicide. He committed suicide. I don't know how he did it. I don't want to know. But he did.
I know we don't know each other personally but that really does not matter, that's not the point. I stood beside him, with all the others, fighting for the same cause, wearing the same color, shouting the same chants. I felt my surroundings, the colors inside the house, the sound of the fan, the lights flickering at my side, stopped. They all stopped. Altogether, they stopped being what they were and then nothing made sense.
I thought about his death today. Again.
No, not really about his death. Its about the moments right before it. Right before he decided to do it. I imagine his heart just sinking, or full of grief or maybe just hollow and empty. I imagine how helpless he was, how nothing could possibly save him, no, not now, not a single call or text, not a thing, it was all too late. I imagine him slowly but decidedly, surely, letting go of the delicate line of his life.
It's too noisy and just too loud. Imagine how enticed he was with the thought of quiet, of peace, of nothingness.

In the mornings,
I ate like a hummingbird. Handfuls of
white chocolate chips and blueberries.
Saucers of green tea.

You do not know devotion until
you have seen these rituals.
These little rituals
where a young girl wakes up,
strips down,
holds her breath, and
steps on the scale.  

I wanted to hear my skeleton rattle inside me like
a set of keys.

I had a tape measure under my bed,
and a death wish.

There is nothing I know,
nothing more precious than this.
I wanted to be
            diamond
rough, and
jagged edges.

She’s a fairy, she just
can’t fly because
she doesn’t eat.

Have you seen the disappearing act where
the girl makes herself shrink and no one
notices because
she is already small?

I won’t stop until
I drink air and eat sunshine.

I won’t stop until
they worry (they love me).

it follows me like a shadow,
each day clinging onto my body for dear life;
i wish my memories would die before i do.

it has gotten smaller,
but it still hurts the same, as if it had just happened yesterday;
at night, the memories still creep into my mind.

i am going insane,
or maybe i've just stayed the same;
**** truly never goes away.