It's not that I want you gone
I appreciate you
I really do
But it's hard to believe you're sincere
When you're also scrolling through shorts at the same time

The girl in the mirror
Is a liar
Even with the people she trusts
She lies
Even in the place she’s most bare
She lies
Even when its just us
She lies

And I’m too tired to figure out the truth
Or put anything I feel into words

There’s an incomplete poem
Sitting in my drafts
Titled “Maybe It’s not So Bad”
Last edited: 7 April.

I don’t think I’ll be finishing it any time soon
Or maybe never

Water listens, acknowledging the pain
It washes and cleans the wounds lightly,
Soothes and calms,
Like a burbling brook to sit next to.

But blood…

Blood is thick and heavy.
It leaves a taste of copper in my mouth
Even after my head resurfaces and I can breathe again.
It stains and flows from cuts, tearing my stitches

Like a sheep
Following the shepherd
He left this world
And returned to Heaven

May he rest in peace

There is a child
Who follows everywhere I go.
Late at night I hear him crying,
Yet my family stirs not.

When he cries,
I’m bound in a straightjacket,
stitched with silence
and the things I don’t know how to say.

I tell him to stop,
But he never listens.
So I muffle his sobs with a pillow
And hide him beneath my blanket

Sometimes he comes out during the day
Wailing for all the world to hear.
I tape his mouth shut
And wait until his tears won't be seen

When did age start feeling like a countdown to death?