i burn the photos like i’m not in them too
you tell me what to do and i lose it.
i swallow down the anger with a pill to chase it,
i count to five watching the fire heat the metal
before pressing it down on my thigh ever so softly.
my friends keep getting worried,
they tell me they’re concerned,
that i’m self destructive.
i say i’ll talk about it with my therapist.
i don’t talk about it to my therapist.
i’m a great liar by omission,
i know how to leave things out
it comes with growing up with a mother you’re afraid of.
to be honest, completely honest
i don’t know how to get better
or if i really want to.
i don’t what i’d be like if i’m not sick.
