I like the quietness of my bedroom,
the night shrouding all my sins, the
only place where I can rest a moment,
away from their eyes sinking like
needles into my skin.
I have been mistaken, I don't see a
coward's face, I can trace with blood
over my feet the steps I've taken to
get here, my strength fueled by the
fire that I breathe.
But I can't fool myself, I still see
a stranger in my reflection, identity
long since separated from this poor
soul, and I ask the sad girl in the
mirror for forgiveness.
Any and all days I walk with quiet breaths
and heavy steps, thinking how wrong
I am, in mind and body, how I should
be more, more of everything, convincing
myself I'm never anything, not completely.
Addicted to the weightless feeling, that
emptiness that screams 'this is who you
are', a blank canvas, ruined from the start.
Why can't you try a little harder? When will
you start living? A ghost, a shell of a soul.
I punch back with sarcasm on my teeth, lips
always a mess of blood, bite too many fingers,
don't you dare come after me, this is
not a temporary state, I'd rather claw my
skin off than have you look at me that way.
Hang in there, this youth that clings to black
coffee and music like an IV drip and some kind of
lifeline, catch the stars on my eyes at nightime,
feel my soul leave my body holding hands with
pen and paper, ink on steady fingers - almost alive.