Sometimes I stare at my lamp; I glued glow-in-the-dark stars on it when I was ten- eleven- twelve years old; back when I first moved here, to this dead-end town.
It reminds me of the person I was back then, anemone up to my knees; I cry stars as I wilt away.
Galaxies can't collide when there's nothing in the sky, and lately, it's just me in a hollow shell– hollow skin (hollow sins flow through the air I breathe).
Crystals in my teeth, crystals in my eyes, she grins- the lights flicker.
My eyes close.
Sometimes I blast music on my headphones to block out everything else and I just stare at tiny things that other people won't notice, something small, that's only mine; like the little mushrooms of clay I stuck to my wall, too long ago to remember clearly.
Like the crooked pictures under my shelves, the little paper snowflakes between my shell collection, and the paint on my floor from when I tried painting again after so many months.
Mom hates the stains, though I think I like them, 'cause they're me.
They're my trial and error, a little reminder that I'm slowly healing and getting better, picking my hobbies back up again; brushing my teeth and sleeping on time.
Like the paint on my hands and my worn-out clothes, like the stickers on my headphones and the stars I draw on my shoes.
Sometimes I stare at my ceiling, waiting for change.
Waiting to grow out of the skin I'm in.
Plants wilt on my windowsill as I wait for something better; my fish swims in a loop like my mind does- trapped under my skin.
My cells burn under the brown in my eyes and the melancholic smiles you give me.
The salt in my tears dries up with every breath; smoke in the air, dirt in my lungs.
Salt in my wounds, soil on my hollowed-out bones.
There's something under my skin; itching, crawling, craving.
It tingles under my fingers; the flesh I bite off.
I'm not sure what it is.
I've never been sure what it is.
(So I take another hit.)
The urge to break myself open and spill my guts all over the floor; clean out the hollow shell that's left over and move on, probably started sometime when I was eleven.
People said I'd grow out of it, though.
God, I miss being alive.
