it feels like hours, sitting in silent contemplation of my hands,

my wrists, as my poisoned brain

whispers

down the stream, not across the river, and the veins so blue, the pulse so

fragile for something so fierce

Like months of filing carefully away where everything sharp is, just in case

(In case what? I finally grow a set and do something with my death? Unlikely.)

Shining moments of clarity, of love and laughter and happiness , edge to the back

of my mind and i'm home alone

again (and don't they know i can't be trusted by myself?)

Like weeks of watching blood drip like ink and ink spatter the page like

Blood

And acid splashes in my eyes and burns in my legs as I punish myself for hurting

(Do I need help? I must be okay if no one can see.)

Sink deeper, no one wants to hear you reaching out, they don't deserve that kind of burden

(and you can't trust them anyway)

hide my wrists (arms, thighs, stomach) and blush as they say Why Didn't You Talk to Me?

(and then late at night it happens again when no one's around to see it)