When I touch my arms I can’t feel them anymore
Of course I have arms and can feel the jaggedness of my skin and the soft texture of hair
But when I touch myself it never feels real
It’s a mental fixation within my brain
That tells me each and everyday that I do not exist in a world that feels so conscious to me
Everyone seems to have it figured out
What they like, what they love
hate and despise
Everyone has their lives in boxes
And I can’t remember what’s in mine
It feels so pointless as I write this poem
Who will read it?
When I’m all alone
I don’t feel my presence and I don’t feel seen
It’s funny when you didn’t cut, but you still feel the bleed
And people ask “why do you bleed?”
My response is “I tripped as I crossed that street.”
They don’t question, because I tend to make mistakes
They are what got me here in the first place
So maybe if I let that kitchen knife go that deep, or if that lady kept typing on her phone as she almost hit me in the passenger seat
If mom used protection instead of wanting it between her legs at just nineteen
I don’t know how to stay, but I’m too scared to leave
So I just keep bleeding