coarse blue fabric against my fingertips

am i real?

long fingernails claw into fragile skin (right underneath black ink flowers and symbols of Christ)

they say to take a white pill in the morning and a pink one at night.

night and day are mixed up, night is day. living is for the night.

i don’t know, all i know is i am sick.

dark thoughts cycle around my head, tonight i compared it to the wheel of a bicycle.

my dad says he hopes this ends soon because it is tearing him up inside. (he never cries anymore. he tries so hard)

while my mother inhales the breath of another man like it is fresh air to her lungs.

caresses cheeks of not her husband, but her lover.

my sister?

carrying a tiny baby someone inside her.

outside her affair my mother is consumed with a healthy baby that she never got to carry inside her (i and my three sisters are the exception. but they died. i am dying everyday since my birth)

so….why should i matter?

i am only carrying the weight of entire universes in my chest.

burning bridges in my ribs and corpses in my heart

i am not a girl.

i am sick.

with a sadness that eats away at my body.

turns 102 pounds, to 101 and then 100….

99.

98.

97.

nothing. 

(i struggle everyday to desire to exist.)”