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These Legs
These legs use to be pretty.
Before I broke that jar
In my chest and released
An unrelenting self hate.
Now these legs are a
Message board of scars.
That can't communicate how
Bad I really feel.
Some nights my mind and body
Just can't agree.
That's when my soul's torn apart.
And when intoxication isn't
Enough of a distraction
I lash out, and since
I'm always alone I hurt myself.
I'm grateful for that though
I don't wanna hurt another
And I certainly don't
Wanna be seen by another
When I'm a bleeding drunken mess.
Even if there was someone
Near I don't think I
Could reach out to them,
I simply don't know how.
How to talk about this,
How to share this burden.
Perhaps that's for the best
Though, because when I've
Degraded myself to this point
My soul whispers to me
I'm not worth it.
I know that's a lie.
Still at 2am alone on my
Bathroom floor drawing
Red faces, it's a pretty convincing
Lie. I ask the mirror
Am I worth it? Thankfully
It never answers.
Because heaven help me
I don't know what
I'd do if it did.
