i dont know why i like to bleed,
to draw lines on my arms and my legs
with razors and scissors and knives.
i dont know why i like to make scars,
to feel pain,
and ultimately numb.

i do it until i have bled out all the anxiety, and fear
and spiraling thoughts,
and aching sadness,
until all i can feel is a searing line of pain and
all i can see is a tear of red
trailing down my leg.
i dont know why each time i do it
i think itll be the last,
that after this one last time i wont ever have to do it again.
i dont know why i dont consider the repercussions of my actions.
that i will have permanent gashes that will slowly fade from
red
to pink
to brown
to white.
that people will ask,
why i wont have an answer.
why i wont ever be able to be comfortable in shorts and a t-shirt.
and i dont know why i still want to do it.
to destroy my skin and my body and my mind.
there must be something wrong in my brain,
some flayed wire, a short circuit that would explain
why i feed off of pain and my own self-inflicted misery.
why i want to feel and be covered with and surrounded by self-hatred.
i dont know why.
i dont know why.

im sorry i ****** it up.
im sorry.
im so sorry.
i just want things to be back to the way they were before,
before i ****** it up.
im sorry,
im so sorry.

i cant get thoughts to leave my head when i want them to.
theyre like solicitors standing on my doorstep,
and they wont go away unless i give them what they want.
new scars, less food, my head bent over a toilet, retching.
too many drugs, not enough drugs,
sleep, sleep, sleep, sleep.

i wish they would go away.
i wish they didnt spin in my head
porpoising up and down
making me sick to my stomach,
sick to my head,
incapacitating me.

I want to escape,  
i just want them gone.
i dont want to die, i just dont want to feel this anymore

i would do anything.
i have done anything,
and none of it seems to do any good.
im just a mess of self destruction and self mutilation,
i know.
fundamentally unlovable?
maybe.
i just want them Gone. Away,
but i dont know how to do that in a healthy way.

I am a flickering lightbulb, sputtering and spitting,
A candle burned to the last of its wick.
You are sentient light.
You are Beautiful.
When I tell you this, you turn your head away.
“I’m a *******”, you say. But I don’t understand
how you can’t see the perfection that you are;
Your eyes, your face, your body.
I don’t understand.
I wish I could make you see,
But I have long since accepted that I cannot.
I think about you a lot.
A lot.
And I don’t know if you think about me.
I want to help you, I want to help you,
but no amount of love will make you well.
I know this, but claws and fangs tear at my insides when I watch you destroy yourself
night after night after night after night.
There must be an end to this pattern.
I want to hold you until it does.
And kiss you, and stroke you arms and face and hair.

I hope you think about me.
Not in passing, not as an afterthought,
and I hope this wish isn’t selfish.

I want to hold you until it passes.
to be allowed to "be there" in any capacity I can.
I want to help,
I'm screaming.
I want to help
but no amount of love will make you well.

This going to bed time tires me.
I think about you,
And I sigh-
for a lot of reasons.
And I miss you with every aching nerve in my body and in my brain and in my eyes.
I do.
I cant help it,
Im sorry.
And this nighttime is so hard, because of the
Blurry uncertainty of the fog behind my eyelids; it blinds me and deafens me,
and when I take aloneness’ hand and face my Thoughts every night,
The very object of my avoidance and deprecance and isolation,
I quake and shiver like a cornered animal. Like a runaway who has finally been caught.
Because I know this routine.
Inside and outside and everyside, and I hate it, with
every aching nerve in my body and in my brain and in my eyes.
And I miss you.
I do,
I do,
I do.