today you told me a million times
i was worth more than i thought,
the lines of my arms meant anxiety,
& drugs should ease me out.
you said my body was cold
& my head was achy,
& not to show my bones
through slinkier
sheaths of skin.
it was like you loved me,
only i knew better.
it was then
you told me my goals were
too lofty & i was driving myself
to sickness.
here is where i hoped
to prove you wrong,
to be thinner than the spaces
between a boy's fingers
(the spaces meant for me)
to be two numbers instead of
three,
to wear convex patterns
beneath my skin to tent it into
bone-tipped mountains.
what i mean is i'm sorry
because i am not ready to silence
the thunder in my gut;
to let the paths of guilt and beauty
fade from my arms;
to be beautiful and perfect
without all
the hurt.
