october 15 2021 (TW: self-harm, abuse, body insecurities)

giving myself to anyone
would be like giving someone
a new bike,
except the handlebars
are squeaky and rusted.
the paint peeling
like the scars on my arm.
it's missing brakes.
it won't stop.
cuts and scrapes
all over its exterior
like the left side of my body.
it works.
when it wants to.
the wheels stop turning
if you use it for too long.

i'm never in the present.
always looking
behind
and ahead.
never considering what happens in the
now.
i just want to make people
happy,
even if it's killing me slowly.
i'll smile just so they can.
i'll say i'm great,
so they won't worry about me.

and i never explain
why i flinch when
someone raises their voice,
when someone comments on
my voice
my arms
my legs
my waist
my chest
my face
my scars.
i never tell them
why i never wear short sleeves.
i get strange looks when i'm
wearing hoodies
in 90° weather.
if they knew,
they'd understand,
but they'd worry.

the people are my pain.
the cuts are my relief.
my body is my insecurity.
the hoodies are the solution.
the crying is concerning.
the smiling's the reassurement.

-i was not doing well here, i'm much better now, i'm five months clean as of writing this, i'm in therapy, and if you are having thoughts like these, or if you relate to this poem in anyway, find help. you deserve it.