(and you, my dear, are gone)

probably better than the other poems i've written in the last 2 weeks.

that's not hard to beat, though *shrugs aggressively*

i chase happiness like it's a bad drug -
my skin rejoices at mania,
this chemical imbalance in my 
depression-addled mind

i play at being effervescent,
my fingers whisper at me, they know i'm lying
they remain stained in ink
and last week's abandoned poem

lackadaisical - that's probably the best
description of my right now,
when it's roughly 11 o'clock
and i can't find myself to sleep - 
insomnia cages me in with bony arms

they laugh at me, at my 
lackadaisical demeanor,
shadows standing in the light,
finding a way to loom as they often do

but my thick thighs hold stories - 
stretch marks weave their way into the skin,
i am not ashamed.
they're left over from when my body decided to change.

a spot of acrylic paint sticks in my brown hair,
at the nape of my neck, it makes the strand white
sometimes, i bind my chest. it feels right, but then the fear takes over
(i can never bring myself to go out, i'm too scared)

i left my watch beside the bathtub the other day, and my wrist felt too light
for the rest of the day. i wear it on my right hand because my sister once
spilled boiling tea on my left hand and the burns were so bad
i had to switch my watch to the other wrist

my collarbones create valleys, they ache
because my heart has never given a f-ck 
not one single day that it beat pandemonium against my ribs
my lungs struggle but i don't help them

this white nightshift combined with my flesh-color
makes me look like a ghost - like a banshee
that washes the clothes of the soon-dead
but i cannot scream for the life of my

and in the end, i'm just
a black-covered ninja
trying to write study notes 
int he corner of a mosque

and there is nothing left to me but paper -
and paper is all too easy to burn.
i light the matchbox on fire
and the flames spread, they dance. 

The End

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