My eyelids are heavy and my breath is slowing. Maybe this is what’s its like to die. Today. She doesn’t know. She does. We are. I hope things change and words try to form in my mind and I letting them fall into place, like sand and ants. Nothing is certain and nothing is sure; yet. Who. Who am I. Words. Sunset. Hope. Some nights I stay up. Others I want to die. Most I have no skin. Most, I am dead. Silver and fingers. Blackness and red. Lines and loss. Eyelids and hurt. And pain. And I am broken. And red is the wall. Dog. Hurt. Breath. Heaven. Orchid. Lobby. Flower. Follower. Itch. Vase. Penis. I can the see the rain. I can press.
Help. Aid.
I miss it. Urges, now, embody themselves in unbroken, worthless skin; scratches.
I yearn for the days when I would slice through to bone, letting £3 towels soak up streams of scarlet blood, idly staring from my window at drifting clouds.
Days would pass without thought; no food would pass my lips, fermented grapes oozing through my blood stream. Light-headed, fumed, uncontrollable; dead in all ways but one.
I’m better now. “Your progress is at a peak.” Drugs pass my lips each day as the sun rises, and my mood is steadied. But I cannot feel; not truly.
And as each day passes, and my skin — and mind — remain in tact, I am a little less myself.
We undress together.
Our clothing
falling to the floor, as though shed snakeskin;
the moon immediately burning through
our pale shoulders.
You see
white traintracks scrawling down my wrists,
Maybe you think
I was once young and insecure,
all shook up
and full of vulnerabilities;
no. This is me, and I am this.
Kiss me and love me
as I am,
or be forever at a loss.
You place your wrist over my wrist,
and our scars meet.
