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
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
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
The fingernail has grown into a rib
no breath you take is yours
you thought you could tear a flower
from its roots
and keep it alive?