I can pull out my own seams better than anyone else

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I am
creativly
self-destructive.

I wake in the morning
and remember
cold steel
against skin;
splitting flesh
on my ankle
and thigh;

lines of shining,
red and white
pills on the edge
of my mother’s
kitchen dounter
and an endless

glass of water;
walking home
stumbling
drunk in the dark
alone, arms
around
my neck and waist

not fighting,
pleading for
the real end.

I woke up and knew
you were no longer
a reason
to live
after I drove

away from you
in a midnight
thunderstorm
without
windshield wipers.

I wake up and pull
strings from the corchet
trim of a pillow case,
unravel moment after
moment of a day
that was never
mine. These
words are no
plea
for your help -

but celebration
of the only
power
available.

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Filed under Frustrations and Rants, lust and love, poetry, writing

Tags: unending sadness