I'm the hero of the story I don't need to be saved

I remember sitting in my room, 

On my parents shitty old Dell laptop, 

Scrolling through photos of girls 

Whose legs could pass for arms

And who could fit their entire hands around their wrists. 

I admired photos of cuts and stitches,

And pills, 

And girls far too sick for their own good. 

I read stories of girls sent to psych wards, 

Whose boyfriends tried to save them,

And whose parents cried over them. 

I wanted so badly to be one of them. 

Maybe I just dont know what love looks like,

If it doesn't come with a look of concern. 

Now I have little girls just like me, 

Reblogging my poems about my husband overdosing in front of me, 

Not once,

But three times over, 

And about my boyfriend dying alone in his bed,

Because I wasnt willing to watch him do the same thing. 

People love the poems 

About how I spent years looking for love in a pipe,

Or a needle, 

Or a pill, 

But ignore the poems about how it's been 13 months since I did a drug, 

19 months since I cut myself, 

2 years since I binged and purged, 

And a whole lot of mercy and grace in that time. 

Its like the success stories aren't as romantic as the dying stories. 

But I gotta tell ya, 

I'm sure in love with my life today. 

I'm in love with all 155 pounds of my body, 

And how it does yoga, 

And dances, 

And smiles all the damn time. 

I'm in love with living this life without a drug, 

Or a drink, 

Or any escape. 

I'm in love with not needing an escape. 

I'm in love with falling asleep next to my husband, 

And knowing tonight's not gonna be the last night I get to do that, 

Opening up

Leaving a place that makes you uncomfortable

my brain:

Details to follow.