The person I hate, someone I blame: myself.
Devoid of meaning or direction. Moving in circles
Blindly searching for the destination. I’m a bookshelf
Without books. Incomplete. Lonely.
The only journals I keep are about killing myself.
Every afternoon is sleeping away pain. Unsure
Where tired ends and useless begins. Always
Aching for a point. A purpose. There’s no way to ensure
That tomorrow won’t be as rainy as the last. Plays
Are in two acts, but my life is just an intermission.
When does at risk turn into pathetic? At
What time do blood shot eyes and
Blood soaked thighs turn beautiful? Scat
And piss swarmed mind, saliva like sand.
Vomit covered lips are just remnants of dinner.
The person I love, someone I admire: myself.
Because some days I can will myself from bed.
Because the cuts have turned to faded scars.
Because not every meal ends up in the toilet.
Because I didn’t kill myself.
Because I survive.