i sit silently on my bed,
gripping fistfuls of hair,
rocking back and forth.

i am sick. i am stone.
it has to be wrong
that i crave this so much -

the empty days, the triggers,
the way it feels to hold
a match to my ankle
or slice a blade into my hip.

there is a piece of me
that loves it, when i am here,
a piece that never wants to leave.