i have not, in quite some time,
want to drag a blade across my skin
as much as tonight.
It is the third day of being twenty-seven,
and I thought by now this ache
would have been dulled, faded, gone even.
I hate this quiet.
I hate the way I need someone to fill this space,
that sits so empty beside me.
Mostly, mostly I’m exhausted,
so tired of holding myself together.
Juggling pieces so they don’t shatter,
overstretching, bending at odd angles,
just so I can show the world how strong I am.
Illusions only last so long,
just band-aids on a gaping wound.


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