another empty bottle

-24-

look at your mom with those puffy pink eyes,

tell her "i'm not well."

watch her gaze drift from soft to malice

as her perception of you

dares to change.

convince yourself things will get better

even though they never truly have;

pretend you understand the things

you have no control over

in a desperate attempt

to be less sad,

and look at your family,

make eye contact now,

because the hour passes too swiftly,

once a week turns to once a month;

it never fully lasts.

use white out to hide

confessions carved into your skin;

erase the mistakes

but start with yourself

because you're the source.

act as though your friends care;

when they look at you,

all you see is pity.

they wish you'd go away,

that you'd stop lacing the air with pessimism

with every breath you take.

breathe less and less,

decide to hold it in

for the happiness of all

and the harm of none

but yourself;

because does it really matter

if you won't be here to feel it?

your skin turns to leather,

rough at the touch and you fiend off of it;

the rough give of your own skin,

being so close to death

gives you the rush you need

to feel alive.

once it's been five months since your last session

you'll realize how bad you've really gotten;

lie to everyone around you,

tell them you haven't slept

but don't tell them why;

if they cared they'd notice,

wouldn't they?

always analyzing,

never analyzed.

you feel nothing if you aren't

digging into your own skin

or feeling it deteriorate at the touch.