am i the only one i know
waging my wars behind my face and above my throat?
shadows will scream that i'm alone.
i've got a migraine and my pain will range from up, down, and sideways,
thank God it's Friday 'cause Fridays will always
be better than Sundays 'cause Sundays are my suicide days
- Migraine, twenty one pilots
and in the late night,
when i think she probably regrets it,
my mother sends me one text glowing gray in the dark:
i just want you to be happy.
mom, i'm sorry.
i'm sorry you got saddled with a kid turning their hips into warfields each day
who blames themself for everything and has a fucked-up/non-existent gender
and doesn't understand how to be anything but constantly and overwhelmingly sad
i wish you didn't but you did
and it's too late now
i say this because of the blood soaking heavy into my shirt,
thinner than i remember,
a gruesome red dulled by the fabric
it's sticking to my hip,
glued by crimson,
and i peel it away with a wince
i will not bandage this
i will lie to cc and tell her i did
but i will not
i'll just hope it stops bleeding
because i know my limits and while this is pressing them
it will not be anything but "handled"
i can't tell if the whooshing in my ears
is just in my head or if it's coming through the headphones i forgot i had on
and i know, i know,
i'm afraid of being my sister
even though there are probably worse things to fear
like the way my sister spits the pronouns "they" with disgust
and i cringe away, scared,
scared of her and myself and the things i tell myself at night
and the things i don't let myself think anymore
like what if i told them all
but i won't
broken record on repeat
hope i don't go insane tonight
like every night
a blank plea
for what's left to remain.