I return my library books before they are due.
I don't owe anything now.
I separate glass from plastic
peel the labels off aluminum cans.
She marks my papers in pen,
circles all the places I use the word should.
Stronger Word Choice Here.
I’m so strong though, remember?
I want hungry, red too, obvious.
I shouldn’t let her read my work,
or go anywhere people can talk
or hear the words I say. I hurt too easy.
I am so singular, knife sent flying by god
aimed at anything vague or good or soft
formed with no handle for nowhere to hold me.
When I think something bad but make my mouth
into a good shape I’m cheating. Year off my life.
The times I don’t mean it don't count.
When I wash my hands the bad comes off.
I don't count the hairs on the shower wall.
I don't watch them slip down the drain.
I close everything. I leave no doors open.
When I touch myself it’s cold. My pillow has a pulse.
I leave the blinds open and the lights on
because I want someone outside to see that I have a pulse.
I forgot the lies I told myself about myself.
I want my life to be warm just like anyone else.
I cut my arms off and I don’t owe anything now.