this is me just talking

i think I enjoy being a bit sick. there is something about giving in, letting the disorder do the thinking. a softness in saying "i tried, im tired, you can take over now". no more fighting. my mind is emptying itself, getting ready to sleep. i dont want to fight it. i dont want to be brave or important or strong or be worth more than this. i dont want to know all the ways i could have been better. i want to be carried home from the car. im ready to be weak, to cave, to give in. im ready to collapse under it all. im ready for it to be ugly and wet and and let it be painful. let me be in pain. let it win. i dont need this anymore. i dont need to be anything more than sick. when i do get to feel it and not have to apologise after? when do i get to feel it and have to clean up after myself in the morning? when do i get to be the smal and selfish oozing sore of a person i crave? i dont to get better if it feels like this. i dont want to. i dont want to. 

in my dreams i melt into my second hand mattress, i am just another stain on its surface. i am nothing less. i am nothing else. its quiet again.

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i have a kitchen in my heart and my mother either feeds with with war or tenderness. i'm afraid that when she looks at the shelf, the objects she thinks of me is a knife. the pans in the sink, the dirty plates, she cleans. sometimes, i wonder what her palms touched before she learned to carry a child. books, dresses, mirrors, was it worth to leave them all for me?

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Counting crows

ONE for sorrow

TWO for mirth 

THREE for a wedding

FOUR for a birth

FIVE for silver

SIX for gold

SEVEN a secret never to be told

EIGHT for a wish

NINE for a kiss

TEN a bird you must not miss

ELEVEN for hope

TWELVE for health

THIRTEEN beware of the devil himself

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I've flooded the bathroom floor again

a feat i have not managed since

twelve

i open the jar of guilt

and shame falls from the shelf

the jars do not go bad

they do not mold or crack

the lids only get looser

and harder to put back

the water seeps into the tiles

and my jars clatter and scream

the endless ringing in my ears

the overwhelming scent of the steam

i'll never be good

not with so much to hold

i'm still dripping onto the floor

and the ceiling's growing mold