i am hidden somewhere behind hushed
silences, sporadic breaths, and a
fluttering heartbeat

i am sat towards the front of the
class with tears brimming my eyes
and fingers dotted with blood and paint

maybe someone will see me someday

i had a headache when i walked
into class and even though you were
at the opposite end of the classroom, it
felt as though glass was
crushing against the back of my
skull and there were spots of black and
blue and bruises in my eyes and i
couldn't feel anything but the
bile in my throat, not even my
lungs could tell if i was
breathing

when i fell into
the darkness which people often call the
pseudonym of "passing out" and my
instructor shook me awake, pulling me
from the depths of the unfeeling
(and how i longed to remain there),
i couldn't answer the question of
"why" and simply stated the cause
to be dehydration instead of panic.

you attempted to make eye contact with me
whilst people had me ingest water
against the currents of the bile
and i just can't look at you
without succumbing to all things
you might've read about panic
disorders and ptsd and lonely
women and sometimes
there's this wound nestled in my
chest and it refuses to heal properly
because you make me feel loneliness
in the worst of ways.

i don't want this. i don't need
you. i never did.

when i grow up, i'd
like to be a ghost
i'm already invisible
to everyone
so i think i'm
halfway there

i am lonely in a
body that has wasted
my skin to paper stretched
against collar bones and
my ribcage won't stop
trembling

i am isolated in a
body which hyperventilates
when it nears all things
sweet or salty or sour
or good because the weight
wrestling in the pit of my
stomach suffocates me

i am alone in a body
that aches for untouching,
unbruised skin and hair so
thick it'll never fall again but
it cannot give that to me any
longer because that would
mean i cannot be sick

i am in a body
that refuses to love me back

i will die as
frail as i came
into the world, but
the blood once covering
my entire being
will be

seeping
from
my
wrist

i haven't heard from you
in six days time and i had
never felt more free
until you sent me one final
message thirty-seven
seconds ago: i hate you.

the feeling is
mutual.