1 year.
I made it 1 whole year.
But these things always start with a virus, a toxic creeping ailment.
A warning.
142.
A number.
My number.
The number.
This number means everything.
This number is my life.
This number is me.
The least pressure I've ever put on the planet.
My issues always start with some kind of warning.
Not to me. To my mother. She always brushes them off. Someone will look. Look at me. They'll say "check her wrists"
"Is she eating"
But she says
"She's fine"
"Of course she is"
I hear
"It's working"
"She's beautiful"
The reality of the situation is that I spent the night before bleeding.
haven't eaten in days.
But she never seems to notice.
The thing is, when you try something for the first time and you hope "God I hope I get away with this" and your worst fears about it happen right off bat and your excuses work, you pretty much do whatever you want.
YOU ARE READING
Poems from the dark
PoetryTrigger warning. To be polite. These are poems I've written. In all honesty not the good ones. Or maybe they are. But they're not my print published ones. I'm not that brave. :)
