Words

If bodies could tell stories
I'd like to imagine
mine would tell you
that I am not worth the breath expelled
in shallow breaths
not worth the energy wasted
creating new plasma
which will soon be destroyed
not worth the scabs
that cover my arms
or the material that cover my scabs
and the hateful words
I cling to
writing them down
in sloppy shorthand
maybe I'll show you sometime
when I'm better
and steel
looks incapable of hurting me

But now looks are like daggers
cutting me into pieces
as if I haven't done enough damage
which I haven't
because I'm still feeling
still here
as much as I wish I wasn't
if I could hide behind my jackets and jeans all year long
no matter how much I detest the fabric
I would live a more pleasant life
but such things are not allowed

I ought to suffer
let the words come to life on my skin
let them overcome me
words I take from opinions of me
mine and others
but mostly mine
3/5 mine
2/5 someone else
making it so my body doesn't even belong to me
I'm a slut and a demon
because of boys
who taught me to think as such
and lesbo for an uncomfortable truth I've eased into
accepting myself
and fuck-up for ignoring girls who needed me there
and most recently hopeless
for disappointing too many
different boys
who I should be strong for
but I am unable to

Maybe next time I'll write something good
if anything comes to mind.