i'm rarely sure of anything but that the sky rises and falls, and that my sadness etches into the spaces between my irregular heartbeats

//self-harm refs, mental illness discussed

my poetry 
will never be red roses spun by rows of perfect white clacking teeth 
lined up like crosses in a graveyard 

and it will never be sunshine and puppy dogs' tails, 
pretty pink lace gowns and knocking nervous knees
are not exactly my thing

my illnesses are not monochrome photographs of girls in short black cocktail dresses
and all of the things wrong with me cannot be fixed 
by self-help books and condescending middle aged women

i am a teenager, 
my body will bounce back from nearly everything i put it through 
the endless sleepless hours where i lay waste to my thoughts, 
drowning my head in buckets of too-hot tea

i don't eat lunches, 
hunger collapsing its way into my skin 
squirming to fit in alongside my other constant companions

depression, meet anxiety 
the reason i take showers sporadically 
but still scrub my skin red raw so that for once in my life
i will feel something like being clean 

and i'm sorry 
that my anger at myself 
winds its way in punishing beaded blood lines embedded in my flesh 
because i know rationally that i should stop

i just can't 
because the needle's in too far 
and to pull it out now would be to damage the vein 

trust me, i know 

and so this is the way my poetry will remain, 
loud music in steady beats through my earbuds, 
weaving and uneasy in varying verses 
a garden of flowers that whisper you unspoken secrets 
where all your sins return to the ground 

and so i show you 
a scorned tongue burned for its troubles, 
presenting you with one single wilting dandelion 
in a palm to painful to touch 

take the sunshine bloom 
for it is my attempt at an apology -

because in this land of fragmented worries, 
crosses are less likely than smoky, groaning city buses 
wheeling their way in a shaky line up the curve of my throat 
and across the bend of my doorknob wrists.

The End

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