a confession:

i stared at the
furry mold
and considered cleaning
but decided i was justified
in breeding diseases.

i'm a cold, unfeeling bitch,
i know. you don't have to say.
no one would ever love me;
my touch is too icy because

i ruined my circulation
with self starvation.
i had to wear gloves
and baggy clothes
so no one would know.
and you didn't know

because i made incisions
in an intimate place
where no one would see
because i knew
no one desired me.

but i guess you
might as well have no shame.

i stared at the dishes
and considered cleaning
but couldn't get out of bed.
thought about showering,
maybe,
but i couldn't do it.

i thought about sleeping,
but i had too much work.
so i didn't sleep, and i
watched movies instead
and cried and cried.

i guess i can't make a confession
without crying,
so i'd rather they hate me.
i guess i couldn't get out of bed
so how would i even manage
to be truthful?

i may as well be delusional,
and you may as well say
i don't know what sex is.
i'll never feel the touch of another,
and i'll never let anyone know me
unless i'm trying to get hurt
on purpose

which, i admit, i do often
sometimes just to calm myself.
i'm a terrible person
without my excuses,
and i'd feel less terrible
if i could use them
but the words fail me every time.

i stared at the dishes
and the toxic waste
and the black mold
collecting
[myself]

collecting
my thoughts
collecting
my feelings
[have never mattered].

i really, really
don't think my feelings matter
so why should i say a thing.
i'll let the parasites consume me,
and i don't care.

i'll take you down with me.
i don't care
if i get hurt.
it doesn't matter.
i can't get out of bed,
so i can't care.

i stared at the
furry mold
and didn't do a thing
and it was

all my fault
all my fault
all my fault.