I find myself always needing someone to take care of me.

I’ve never asked anyone to
Some try—
Fail—
And then I fall apart.

But it’s true.
I’m not okay anymore.
I’m not okay alone.
So I’m clinging
I’m clinging.
But I would much rather cling to death.
I’d rather die than feel.
I was clinging to him,
(I’m clinging to anyone who comes along)
I hope he doesn’t mind.
I don’t need him to take care of me—
Love me.
But I’d like him to.
Like turns to love.
And love turns to ash.

I love.

But I don’t want to love anymore.
I don’t want to speak.
I want to touch.
To communicate through the skin.
Kissing greeting—
Lip-to-lip language—
Whispering fingertips—
Goose bump braille.

In death there is no skin to touch.
No speech to hear.
No one to take care of you.
No one at all.
(And that’s okay.)

No roaring of the blood
Rushing to the surface of the skin
When licked and blown,
When heated and cooled.

And I cannot wait for the day.

I bite because I want someone to
Bite back.

You raped me and I hate you.
You raped me and I hate you.
You raped me and I hate you.
I trusted you and I hate you.

I want to burn away my sadness.

I feel free.

I was never any good at writing—especially not fiction. The idea never quite jarred with me: the creation of something from nothing. In my head, characters were like miniature people, at times paired down to their essentials; at times, larger than real fresh and blood humans. Who am I to play God? Especially when my creations never end up as anything more than unformed. Like half a being, left to die before ever truly knowing life.

I wish
that instead of walking in another’s shoes
I could walk in their mind
know the quiet
feel the freedom.

When light touches my skin, it almost feels like a person—caressing.
Touch touch touch.

Me.

Me.

Me.

I just want a pretty girl to keep me warm.

But I could not move mountains,
I could not make myself whole
Enough to be enough for you.