i wish i’d bled enough; my wrists — sore from scratching, from trying to crawl out of this treacherous skin my lungs — dry from screaming. my lips — chapped from chanting prayers;
one for each gravestone in my brain —
different dates for a single name.
and i wish i’d bled enough — died an enough number to never die again,
but my wrists, they still have spaces for my wounds and my mind, it still has spaces for my tombs
and tonight, i will hold funerals for the parts of me that bled to death, for the parts of me that in the caskets lie and for those that still are yet to die.