it all started with your grubby chipped hand
reaching out to pull me up from that bathtub of disgust
with suicide notes and buckets of toilet-flushed stomach acid
to let me breathe and write on my skin things like
I was loved and I was worth knowing
and you set me up with my life support
to keep me going just that bit longer of her
space holiday
lyrics and ps2 games to play
instead of puking and picking away at myself.

our conversations were always late at night
and on things like gates and in trollies by the churchyard
before hurtling down my hill laughing and peeling
apart a friendship that helped thaw the winter
in my ribcadge. and when I woke up next to you
all I wanted was to continue those moments forever
and never returning to that forest of disaster you
tore me from.

but you wanted more. I tried to tell you that
you'd reached the limit of what I can give to
a friend, and past that it just turned into one
night stands and never calling you back.
in the morning when I was walking home

from another pair of faceless-arms
the mist brought your answer phone message
and that was the last time you told me I was beautiful.

now your looks are cold, your words small and mean
and you hate me to hurt me to make me realise
it was all fake, I wasn't ever worth anything all along. so I drag
my mascara dripped fingers through the 6 month-old boxes of
lost-hope to find that bucket, and my hand pulls away from yours
to return to its home inside the back of my throat ripping my insides
out and shakingbreaking, shuddering.
and aching.