i am unsure of this
myself, these nerve endings in my wrist
the way they pulse
willing myself with words,
be strong, be strong.
this is nineteen and afraid
nothing more nothing less
between the edge and
brink that should not be crossed–
labeled addiction, eating disorder, self destruction
dysmorphic, they will title it.
don’t call me, don’t write me
i will run dysmorphic and rampant through the streets
hymns of God will be sung
as if i even know what that word means – God.
i use it enough in my writing to make it seem like i do,
i’m full of shit, and so are you.
my darkest words:
the ones about that smooth, cool, kitchen-knife-word: control
going back and forth between
sure and unsure.
the one thing i have hold over is myself
my fixation on my control of control,
needle to my veins
harness that power, control
my disrespected body
my soft, learning mind
don’t think you can touch my secrets
see my thoughts.
put your dirty fingers away, bastard.