Its been 8 months. Instead of loving myself I ate my fingernails.
Instead of speaking I took my arm and used a knife.
I watched the number on the scale dip down to seventy eight and I spent months away from home, putting my fingers in my ears until I was seeing stars instead of skin.
Instead of killing myself I was forced to go to the hospital. They put a tube up my nose and I ripped out my hair.
Things will get better or I will end. The world is made up of data streams and molecules and I want to disperse
I am told I am made of stars but no one will ever look at me with that much wonder.
I had my first kiss.
I had a poem published
I opened my eyes and I don't know if they're closing.