for all that everyone sees my flaws, i'm the only one who sees how to fix them

my roommates told me i was selfish and i
wanted to melt into the walls;

every day that i'm alive is a struggle
for the sake of everybody else and i'm
sorry if it's still not enough -

i'm so tired of always getting angry
only to find that i'm the one at fault.

everything in my life proves the same thing,
over and over and over again:

things would be better
without me here.

a riddle

i want a break from being. my bones are heavy
and i'm tired of fueling this flesh with anything but fire.

burn me alive. char me to death.
i'm so tired of sucking in breath,
i need release.

i am tied to so many things that i can't bear to care about
and everyone i try to love enough to explain this to
sheds tears that i can't mirror.

there are a lot of somethings that i wish i could destroy,
but there is only one someone.

ashes to ashes, dust to dust,
i am tired of mattering.

no more, no more.

guess who.

i'm sorry you can't see it

'cause it's all inside my head;

it's a beautiful morning

and i can't get out of bed.

nurse

sign my cast.

sign it, "get well soon." sign it, "bffl!"
sign it with your name in a heart.

i can't draw my name in a heart
because most of the time it makes me laugh,
but some of the time it makes me cry.

yesterday i gripped the desk and gasped for air
and cried so hard i blew out my candles.

happy sweet 16 years of therapy,
happy's just another word whose definition doesn't strike me quite right,
but i have prescriptions for that.

shall i show them to you?
in lieu of a doctor's note, a letter from my parents?

this is what's wrong with me.

this is why i couldn't come to class last week,
why i had the readings done and my paper complete
and they stayed on my desk until they were four days late.

i can't get out of bed some mornings.

i hate it.

i'm awake and i know i have to go and i just can't.
i can move, can roll over, i'm not paralyzed, it's not -
it's not something i can explain from the outside,
but i can't get out of bed some mornings.

sign my cast.

i want to look down at a plaster case that's going to hold me together and heal me.
i want to see all the names of the people who asked me what happened;
the names of who i got to tell.

i can't carry my prescriptions around like a fucking battle wound.

you can't sign my fucking pills before i swallow them,
trying to heal up the cuts that bandages can't hide because they're fucking inside me.

how am i supposed to tell people what's wrong
when i don't fucking know?

nothing is wrong.

it's just that sometimes i forget that my room is messy
and then when i remember i start to cry.

sometimes i think people hate me,
and then i hate myself for thinking i'm important enough
for other people to anything me.

sometimes i want to die.

a lot of the time, i want to die.

there's no splint or sling that can hold me together.
and the worst part is that if anyone asks me what happened,
i will have to tell them,

"nothing."

this was no accident.
i was born broken.

there is no such thing as "get well soon" for me.

sign my cast,
"i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry."