Waking up in a sea of sweat with no recollection of last night's nightmares was never a part of my plan.
Quivering hands and sweat on my brow and my shoulders are in knots.
My stomach is acidic and I can't help the fleeting memories of voices in my subconscious telling me to die.
My hands grasp at yours and after telling you I loved you, they grasp at sharp things because they're the only things that bring me warmth these days.
Burning in the back of my throat is no long from hot sauce or cinnamon hearts, but cinnamon whiskey and hot smoke.
I find myself ripping out my hair, biting my nails until I can see my cuticles, biting at my own skin until I bruise,
punching poles outside of my school, causing bruised knuckles that I wish you could kiss better.
I wish panic attacks didn't come so often, because you were the only thing keeping me grounded and now,
I'm just floating.
And waiting upon the harsh smack of my skull on pavement, when the ghosts of your fingertips aren't strong enough to catch me.
YOU ARE READING
Poetic Relapse.
PoetryA place for me to write poetry whenever it arises in my lungs, when I have no air to scream these words that haunt me into my days and night
