Plan "B".
B for beginnings;
backward;
broken.
A lump in my throat,
best to leave me unwoken.
Plan "Backup",
Plan "The First Plan Failed",
tie knots in magenta bandanas,
keep my face fairly veiled.
My brain whispers softly,
like a horrible song,
so I push it further until it feels wrong.
And it contemplates...
Second best, pining perfection,
always stressed, and self-rejection.
Living lies and hiding truths,
still a child and stripped of youth.
Strip me of color and strip me of skin,
already bleach-white and pale from past sin.
Two hours for a phone call,
pleas and tears for me to abstain,
no idea of the scotched-up purple note card,
hollowing bones, or the dysphoric, distorted pain.
Talk to the doctor,
and shut your eyes tight,
bind yourself to nothing,
and push them from sight.
The second year of high school
is when the plan's set,
losing hope like mind's reason,
but don't do it...
yet.
YOU ARE READING
Poems
PoetryJust a collection of poems I wrote, most have darker themes, so here's your angst/trigger warning if you need it. I write these on a pc so if the format looks weird on your phone that's probably why.
