momma

tell me i'm still perfect

tell me i'm still interesting

even though i'm all drugged up these days

can i still be your little angel

can i still be your little girl

please, momma,

can i still be your daughter?

i am nothing but this hollow shell of verbatim,

of trauma,

of the buzz of a dropped microphone

i think i bore my therapist

i bore me too.

chosen last

for good reason

but now

the smile is easy

the hazy fog is fading

the numbness begins to wash away

and yet-

i'm never happy for too long

the sunshine is disappears so quickly

so maybe,

hands clutching the cracked porcelain sink,

i'll take all my pills

till i go back to nothingness

warm,

loving,

gentle,

nothing.

i want to stop

i want to hurt

if i do it first, i won't have to feel your burn

i'll watch those little orange pills wash away

die in the morn

in the flickering yellow bathroom lights

who am i if i'm not broken

who am i if i'm not weeping on the couch

who am i if i'm not freezing cold

who am i if i'm not unspoken

desolate

in an empty bed

my bones chipping

my organs shriveling

is it so bad

to miss the days

where i felt as small as the calories i ate?

is it so bad

to miss being sick?

is it so bad

to miss being perfect?

momma, 

you're gonna hate this one

if you ever read it,

i am sorry for your loss

but that baby girl died when she was just fourteen years old

is it so bad

to miss being broken?