get so high that
you feel numb,
slit your wrists while in
the tub. warm water glides
over the edge of your
porcelain ship. blood flows
through caulk river
channels between
the tile. you will haunt the
seals between the
floor forever.
the bathroom smells like blood
and when they open the door,
you look into their eyes
as they’re crumbled on the floor.
as you open your mouth
they put a hand to your face;
exhaling reassurances to fill the empty space:
‘this will be the last time,
i just had a hard day.
some days i feel i’m at war
i swear i don’t hurt anymore.’all of a sudden
they’re a million miles away.
through the back end of binoculars
you don’t know what to say because
you know you can’t do anything
to take away the pain.
even though cuts fade to scars,
sometimes the blood stains.
i want to bleed tonight.
when nothing makes sense
i want to bleed out because
my heart’s not beating right.i want to bleed tonight because
deep wounds heal eventually; my
favorite reminder that everything ends
up alright.i bleed because i need to know
i am flesh and blood and not a ghost.
i’m still dreaming
about razor blade kisses
on my thighs
on my arms
teasing tongue
on my neck.
my first kiss
ever,
always threatening
to be my last.
the only kiss
to ever make me feel
something.
At dinner parties, my parents still laugh
and tell their friends about how
I used to bite my toenails as a child– as if
it is cute that my fingernails and cuticles constantly
resembled a war zone. As if
the fact that a four year old had enough anxiety
to resort to biting her toenails
once her fingernails ran out, was funny.
Five thousand eight hundred and forty three days later,
the skin around my thumbs has learned how to heal
when it is uprooted from it’s home.
Five thousand eight hundred and forty three days later
and I’m sitting in this chair, small flakes of my skin accumulating
on my thigh. I try and hide them,
brush them off onto the floor.
Five thousand eight hundred and forty three days later
and she asks, Why
do you pick your thumbs?
and I think: To feel something.
Because bloody thumbs
are a lot easier to brush off
than the scars on your inner arms.
Because you can pick your thumbs
without having to discretely pack
blades and gauze pads and tape and bandages
in your backpack.
Because you don’t have to hide
in a bathroom stall between classes
just to feel something.
Some days the anxiety
is so bad my fingerprint
reader on my phone cannot read
my thumbs.
Some days my fingers are so raw
I cannot hold
my pencil without cringing.
Some days my fingers look
like they’re wearing bugle hats.
Some days my nail beds are
a war zone.
I’m picking at myself to feel something
because being numb isn’t enough to prove I’m alive.
‘If you hate your scars, why do you do it?’ he asked.
‘Sometimes,’ she said, ‘the only way to get rid of all the pain in my mind is to feel it on my wrists.’
You punctured my heart, yet
my wrists are what bleed.
Silenticel 