Headaches, Malfunctions, and funny little Skeletons.

95

Ever since my book has hit 100 poems, I've started counting down backwards from it.
99 was everything I had left of a since rekindled friendship, it was my broken heart, stabbed and torn and bleeding all over the place. 98 was my broken half sibling, his trust about as strong as a balloon against a cactus, every last chance I'd given, he is falling away and mocking everything I've ever done for him. 97 was about my labels, everything that's ever been clinically wrong with me. 96 was about my empathy problem, giving people everything I have until there's nothing left of me, I am bleeding out every single thing anyone has ever confided in me with. I am the double edged sword. I did this to myself.

But 95. I've been writing 95 for what seems like months, every time my spoken word gets there it falls apart. 95, I wrote about how I pitied myself, I pitied who I'd become since meeting you, how you have effected my life. Ruining my upbringing since before I was even born.
95, I wrote about how you ruined what was left of us. You ruined the only family I thought I'd ever known. You wanted me so badly to fit it, you pushed and poked and prodded and forced me to change everything I've ever known about my self. You wanted to raise me so badly after I already believed I was grown. You trashed my poetry, I haven't forgotten, you beat the shit out of me, I haven't forgotten, and you forced me to be someone I wasn't in front of hundreds of people, I refuse to forget.

And despite it all I still share the same laugh. I still have the loud and unforgiving bellows that fill the blank boring sound around me, us.

So many times have people wanted to put me in a box, fold me the proper way so that I could end up exactly like you. Which amazes me.

95, you tore our family apart, or what was left of it. And to cope I have been trashing your name in my poetry, laughing out loud with you, talking very loudly, unapologetically, behind your back. Telling you everything is fine- if you would even ask. I am so sick and tired of you.

95, you are the sole reason on why I hate myself.