Society says the point of “getting better” is to be loved. By someone; by something.
There was a time when I believed
were growing up and down my ribcage and that
(if I was thin enough)
the flowers would protrude
through my skin and make me
under my eyes were the same shade
purple as the bruises that were
constantly showing up
on my skin.
Decomposed planets had found a home
on my milky way limbs
but I was not filled with stardust or outer space
I was filled with life
and it was spilling all over the floor
perfectly in sync
with the dropping number
on the scale.
There was a time when
my wrists were as red as my blood shot eyes
and my skin was as dry as the
summers I spent hidden from questions.
I guess all it took was fake smiles and baggy clothes
to hide the torment
because the closest anyone ever came
to asking if I was okay
was someone exclaiming
in front of the whole fucking class
“You look tired!”
As if any of us were running
on a decent amount
Perfection was expected
and my grades were only going up.
But one day I opened a new text book
and as the spine cracked
I was afraid it was my own.
There was a time when I was attached
to so many IVs
That I believed perhaps the medicine being
pumped inside my blue veins
was a sign that I was the illness
that needed a cure.
I had grown up so afraid of monsters,
I had not realized that I
was the skeleton
in my own closet.