I skipped the second half of school,
went home and grabbed a shovel.
As I was digging a hole big enough to bury my problems,
my friend texted me, said
Just watch two episodes of a show on Netflix,
then see how you feel afterwards.
Let me know if you feel any better.

I didn't text her back,
didn't tell her that 81 minutes of Beavis and Butthead
didn't quite do the job.
I didn't tell her that I googled "How to Love Yourself"
and I definitely didn't tell her that out of the 24 steps on WikiHow,
only one could save me.
Step number 5 was "Forgive yourself."
My first thought was,
How are you going to make that number 5?
23 other steps to being a passionate person who is truly grateful
do not compare to
forgiving yourself.
That's the hardest part.
My second thought was how.
How can I forgive myself,
when my dog greets me every morning
with bright eyes and puppy kisses
and I tell him to go away
and I push him off my lap
because he's taking up too much time?
How can I forgive myself
when step number 3 suggests keeping a diary,
and my first reaction is to look down at my legs because
my thighs are enough of a diary as it is.
These scars tell people more sad stories about me than they’d ever need to know.

Beavis and Butthead didn't do the job because there is no job
there's only volunteer work and benefits to claim.

my stomach is empty
like a cave
i do not want to write
my fingers get sweaty from grabbing at things
that aren't really there
it's easier to be something i'm not
and it's easier to hurt myself and lose myself in dark
rooms with yellow lighting
i am moldy
soft
wet
sorry

you slide down the back of my tongue and get caught in my throat
alcohol can't be the only thing to get you out of my mouth
i am sick, please sleep

i can't help but say
that i wish
he would find himself
falling into someone else's sheets

leave the thoughts of the boy with the skinned knees and skinny elbows
and bony collarbones
alone
because he will fly far
far away
and make a home
in a house
that is not your's

you are not the reason he is online

My language is a dance. When I am excited, the tempo speeds up into a tango; characterized by marked rhythms and postures and abrupt pauses. I am small, but my voice is loud. I will not slump my shoulders, but I will take three steps forward, and no steps back. I will be in your face and I will pronounce my words with my history and I will say "soda" instead of "pop". I will make you hear me.
I speak to myself quietly and talk about pink satin sheets when I'm just trying to talk about the way I feel when I see him walking with her. My feelings are not words, they are colors. I will throw rocks through my own windows just by talking about myself. My language is sliding my test paper a little further past my arm when I can tell that you need help. I will help. My language consists of eye contact and tiptoeing around the question. I spend a lot of my time cursing the name of God in front of Catholics, but I do not mean to. My language is how I was raised, following angry parents through hallways and repeating words that should not have been repeated. I stumble and trip over my words like tree roots when I read out loud to the class. My language is not unique because I trace my words over everything that has ever been said around me. When I'm sad, my language is a slow dance in a burning room because I'm repeating everything bad I've ever said about myself, I'm repeating everything bad I've ever said about myself. My language is my environment; it is not unique, it is just there. My catch phrases are built on bruises caused by being shoved into lockers, but this is not sixth grade anymore. People are not "*******"; they are human, and I am sorry. Language is built upon every bad thing that has ever happened, and every reaction to it.

I'd rather sit in silence and swallow the lump of feelings in my throat than mention that you're 4 and a half hours late and this is my only day off in the past 2 months