Books, Bones & Borderline

feeling like id rather carve out every inch of my own body than ever catch a glimpse of myself in any remotely reflective surface ever again

my steady hands, the hands that itch to create, now shake with an urge to destroy, to ruin everything i’ve built, to bring myself back to rock bottom and run my hands through the coarse dirt

i let your broken hands mould imperfection into my very being, no wonder each flaw i feel rise out of the depths of my soul is an echo of you

all roads lead back here in some way or other, can’t just be happy, the lump of self loathing in the back of my throat is too large, far too disgusting and uncomfortable to swallow

sitting on the kitchen floor, listening to the hum of the fridge, mitski’s voice plays in the background, cradling a half empty glass of milk, crying. this is poetry.

sitting this august out bc i chose happiness and peace with my girlfriend instead of cancelling plans just in case he’d call and living for the hope of it all for the 3rd year in a row