the only thing keeping my sheets warm are the ghosts that hold my arms down at night
i just want to want to live
do you get this, does anybody understand?
i'm a fucking lonely person with sticks for bones
trying to give up what has amounted to an addiction
and here's the worst part:
i know i should want to stop.
i know i should, yet i don't want to -
i don't want to stop, want to keep carving my body
into the punishments i give myself
because i'm such a fucking failure
but i know i shouldn't.
so i'm trying not to,
shocks of pain from a rubber band snapped around my wrist
and here's a fucking tidbit:
i never cut on my wrist, not once,
because i was always afraid that if i did,
i would never stop.
and i would bleed out on my bathroom tiles
but i don't even care anymore.
not like i'm going to tell anyone, though,
because though there is a slight tolerance
for my heavy sadness, gummy and clinging to my teeth,
nobody will listen to me past the words
"I'm afraid I've cut myself"
(i know how this routine goes,
seen it with dead eyes and my sister's face)
(and look how that worked out for her)
so this will be my dirty little secret
like everything else seems to be,
tucked into the place in my heart where i keep
all of the things i am ashamed of.
like the swollen ring around my ankle
where all i could think of was the craving
for pain, for a mark, for something to prove i was not useless
and i know i've hinted at it with friends,
seeking blood in panic-filled rambles to CC,
and a pained tone taken to conversations
about a self-harmer that RH knows
so i'm trying, trying,
even though i know
on some level
that it's a little too late:
i'm already dead inside.