there's blood on the bathroom floor again,
my mother would be ashamed,
my head is the one that's guilty,
but my soul is always blamed.
three months older, three months clean,
I thought that I might win
but once again I find myself
digging graves into my skin.
no amount of promises
can make or break the fight;
do not believe that I am well
from the sonnets that I write.
it's survival of the fittest,
not everyone will thrive.
we're pushed so far that we go against
the instinct to survive.
(I have never tried out writing about my problems it surprisingly actually comforts me?)
