i write love poems
to the person i love the most
they shouldn't feel obligated to do anything in return
i don't deserve it
but sometimes i wish they'd share their feeling
sometimes i wish they'd show me that
and write a love poem back

when the tip passes through my skin blood isnt the only thing that leaves me
every other emotion and feeling leaves me too
i feel empty, but its better than feeling anything at all
its better than anything in the whole world

i drag the blade on my wrist and hot red liquid begins to bubble
it stays there for a while and i wonder to myself
how long will it stay there before the bubble bursts
how long will i stay here until i burst?

the bubble bursts sooner than expected and it begins to pour from my wrist
and it feels good
relief
i feel okay
and okay is good
for now

I'm sitting in the big chair
Taking my fingers and tracing them over the patterns
I'm making shapes and scratching into the fabric
A thread or two tug and make a noise as they cling to the tips of my nails

I'm looking at the wallpaper
Slowly moving my eyes and counting every stripe on the wall
White, blue, red, blue, white
I count 136 before i lose my place and have to start all over again
i notice a flaw in the pattern and move on


I'm closing my eyes and resting
Trying my hardest to ignore your gaze and your difficult questions
I don't speak
I don't listen
I don't feel
I just sit and rest
136 stripes, 208 triangles, 2 flaws- one in the wallpaper, the other is me

That's why i'm sitting in the big chair today
With the lady i don't care for
Listening to questions i don't know the answers to
Ignoring her cry for some sort of reply

"I still miss that look in your eyes
The one you give when you look at me… remember it?
That wasn't the same look you gave me 2 minutes ago
That wasn't the same look you gave me when you first met me
I miss the old you."