cracked wooden slats of those chairs we had as children, discarded in the basement for the moisture to eat like sustenance of the ruins

havent edited this, i'm sorry - my poetry is just messy murmurs lately,

i think i'm damage control
i don't say, because you don't need to hear my drivel anymore, 
even though my parents essentially just use me as a buffer these days
false cheerful facade so they won't find out, 
even though that's exactly why they're using me to block out my sister's crushing depression, 
the weight of it heavy over all our heads

i ate four chocolate almonds and now i feel physically sick
i do say, because we've both been having the same problem lately 
of feeling hungry sometimes, but being too nauseous to actually eat anything 
so i think we're just waiting for something substantial to come along
that we won't feel the clenching, greasy sensation of illness at

there are so many goddamn things i want to say to you 
like how i'm not fine, i'm not fine at all 

i pull too hard when i brush my hair, 
scratch at the skin of my arms until they bleed
take showers at 12 pm, 1 am, 2 am, late/early enough that i can drown myself
hang my hands out the window when they creep with frost 

but i can only stifle half the things i want to tell you, 
i don't want to fracture you any more than you already are
and i know we're both so awfully crumpled down 
so the only way it's fair if i only exert a little pressure

so i want to tell you secrets, 
the soft things that curl inside my heart at night
but i'm so terrified you'll see them as cold
and leave them out overnight
until the morning sun has frosted it with neglect

but i'm running out of gentle parts of myself, 
things that whimper lightly at touch
and seek human interaction
swelling bright and red and searching within,
things that you could find it in yourself to love
if only you'd try - but of course i'd never ask that of you

after all, this isn't fair, 
and i can never seem to forget that -
because of course you could never love someone like me
something like me, 
i pass no illusions and i know you don't either
(not intentionally, we whisper) 

but i'm afraid one day you'll see me
as i waste away here where the streetlamps don't reach
and death can't accuse me of cheating at cards
and send her fingers to twist deep in my gut,
holding the thin bones of my fingers so i cannot escape her loving grip

there are more things broken within me than whole

and i know i'm never going to be fully fixed, 
so i guess i'll just drag my lagging parts alone behind me
and wait for the sun to set 

(because maybe people won't look too closely in the darkness.)

The End

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