Poetic Relapse.

I Was Doing So Well

My mouth is no longer sealed with broken tooth smiles and grins that only last for so long.

These eyes no longer gleam with child-like wonder and sparkle with hope for tomorrow's joy.

These hands are no longer crossed in prayer and linked with my mother's in Walmart.

These limbs are no longer flailing on the swing sets nor are they pushing a skateboard.

These tears are no longer caused by scrapes on knees and sad movies of lost loves and death.

This mouth now bites into the skin on my hand to stop the screaming that tries to emerge.

These eyes are brimming with eternal hatred for my own body and a mind that hates itself.

These hands are only used to flick lighters for cylindrical metaphors for cancer and death.

These limbs only curl in on themselves at night, littered with self inflicted scars and bruises.

These tears are filled with depression and anxiety and anorexia and self inflicted wounds that don't disappear in the morning and burns that are caused by the lighters used for cylindrical metaphors for cancer and death placed on limbs that curl in on themselves whilst these eyes shed blackened tears from bleak and bleary eyes that can't help but state how unhappy this bitter soul is.

My mind is a minefield and every word and every memory lights off another explosion behind my eyes that bring non existent tears to the surface and I'm finding myself drowning above sea level. My hands no longer shake but are cold with lack of blood and these purple lines cause cancerous thoughts in my brain with no treatment. There is no chemotherapy for depression and all I can do is wait it out.

My mother thinks I am an attention seeker. She thinks that I only harm myself so others can see and pity me and sometimes that's true, because I hope that one day someone will see them and care that I'm hurting and that I need help.

I need a helping hand that I don't think I do. I need someone to wipe my tears when I get tired of holding then back and I need someone to tell me that I'm going to get better even when I don't believe it.

These destructive thoughts come back every once and a while and are always ten fold because the pain I felt in younger days got old and these scars need to be freshened up for showtime as if theyre going to play a part in my recovery.

I am depressed, and here I am thinking I was doing so well...