tw // blood, self harm, implied/referenced abuse

Every morning you become a little more of him

the wrinkles in the mirror

jagged silver signature

penned across your skin,

hands that dug in

until a fingernail chipped off in your lungs.

He made a mark in the back of your skull, behind your eyes

but you don’t know this.

There is only so much you can see.

You used to believe

you could pack up your things and go

take the next train to nowhere

leave behind everything that is real

and build something new. You never wanted to, but

you wanted to believe that you could.

You wanted to ignore the razor blade in your left hand

drawing hyacinths over

the flesh-colored shackles on your wrists

the chain you wrapped around your waist

six times.

Now, you know better

know that the blood you bleed

is the blood you owe

know that nothing you are

is anything you own

know that no one knows

what a sick and twisted thing you are

and you won’t be the one to tell them

that you dream of slicing up the world

just to see if it bleeds the same red.

In the dead of the night   you let yourself hope 

that someday

you can purge him from your veins

make him your villain

and crucify him for your sins,

cough up the piece of him trapped in your lungs

and carve off those embellished chains.

You wonder if there will come a time

when you are angry enough 

to forget that you are afraid.

You wonder if, decades ago

he wrote this same poem 

and let fury wash away his fear.

You wonder if, by now

placing your souls upon the scales

they would attain a perfect balance.

Every morning you bite yourself awake

and forget.

The fingernail has grown into a rib

no breath you take is yours

it laughs:

you thought you could tear a flower 

from its roots

and keep it alive?