I binge write poetry
on the nights I can't escape,
So maybe the darkness will seep out onto the page.
I am a trembling ghost
pale, under the blankets of my fears
because I can't face the truth.
When I couldn't write in the hospital
I gnawed my fingernails to the bone.
One escape is like the other,
Except the writing
dulls the echoes of the dead
in my ears.
I feel like there is liquid
pouring into my lungs.
I feel like I am drowning
inside my own body.
My mind rejects my attempts
at "happy",
Like my stomach rejects the food.
I am only a page full of scribbles,
with unworthy words underneath
that will never be seen again.
It seems that "okay"
will never reach me,
and I'm not sure I want it to.
