i'm sorry.

i'm sorry i failed you.

i'm sorry i couldn't-

no, can't-

help you.

i'm sorry my own wounds

are still too fresh,

and i'm sorry i am too


of myself to help you.

but most of all,

i'm sorry i failed myself.

i'm sorry i am too fucked up.

i'm sorry i am so sick,

so lost,

so lonely,

that i grabbed on

to that small hope.

i was desperate

that your arm had a cut,

and not just a scratch.

i was so desperate

to know, for sure,

that i am not alone.

because i don't believe it,

not really,

that there are others

like me.

that there are others

as fucked up as me.

i'm sorry i want someone else

to need to cut.

i'm sorry the desire

to see blood pouring from my wrists

is so strong, and

i'm sorry i won't be able to stop myself

for very much longer.

i'm sorry i can't just be happy

that others are ok.

that others aren't like me.

i'm sorry i can't

just be ok.

just get better.

just stop cutting.

just want to live.

i'm sorry i don't want it enough.

maybe if i just

wanted it enough,

i could get better.

i don't want to e

like this.

who would?

i'm afraid,

and scared,

and frozen,

and scarred,

and lonely.

my body,

which isn't even my body,

is striped with scars.

my mind,

which isn't all mine either,

is loud, and crowded.

there are too many beings in here,

and not enough space.

i need space,

and warmth,

and peace.

but none of that exists

in my world,

and so i'm left here

alone. isolated.

grasping at straws.

like that cut

on your arm.

i'm sorry.