you make me sick. you make my stomach fold in on itself and press out against the lining of my flesh. you put lumps in my throat and you tie strings to my tear glands and tug until the world is just a panoply of blurred lines, hazy colour and bokeh.

you made me do this.  you put the knife in my fingers and you told me to tear, you said you would care if i hurt myself like this. you said you’d care if i opened my flesh up for you like a gift of blood and flesh and tissue. but you never really did.

i like being small, i like being the blue eyed girl sitting amidst background noise, rubber band arms holding the necks of her legs together. i like being the blue eyed girl with hands holding her from spilling in a mess at everyone’s toes. i like it when they’re your hands.

i try to define you with mental disorders. i say you have schizophrenia and pretend it’s a valid excuse. i’m in love with one of your personalities, but the other doesn’t even notice me.

when you are quiet are you imagining your hands around my throat with my spine caressing your wall? shoving your fingers down my throat until I can’t speak or ripping my ribcage outwards the way you outstretch your fingers?

sometimes you love me. sometimes you kiss my neck just to hear me laugh and some nights you hold me so close to your chest i feel your heartbeat between my wingbones.

some mornings you forget i exist.