You wonder who you’re doing it for when you’re lying on the floor,
Coughing up liquor or bleeding out numb,
And you feel like you’re spinning in a crowd as you feel the hands creep over your body and smell the people, all the pain, all the dark.
You wonder what you’re doing it for as you sneak around your house to find some beer or you break shaving razors apart or you
Puke up your dinner. Sometimes you don’t even know why you can’t just let it all go, why you have to hurt yourself to try to heal yourself.
You replace pain with pain as you huddle in the rain and stare at the black ground until it starts pushing up towards you and you meet it with a cold kiss
And you feel the dry rain beat into your chest and your back and you curl up into yourself until you remember how to breathe again.
You don’t know what you’re doing when you drown yourself to breathe, when you break yourself to sew yourself back together, when you let the black beat into your chest and your back and you curl up into yourself until you remember how to breathe again.
You don’t know what you’re doing when you drown yourself to breathe, when you break yourself to sew yourself back together, when you let the black get more black and black and black until everything is black and everything hurts but nothing is real at all and you spiral until you are gone
And then you come up, and then it begins again.
YOU ARE READING
What I Don't Say
RandomIn a series of poems, an unnamed narrator examines her best friend's addiction, her depression and sense of self, and what it is like to grow up when it seems like everyone she is surrounded by is falling apart. Containing elements of fiction and po...
