Weakness

A Poem by No.

I don't like people touching me when I'm in this sort of state, when internal bleeding and my raw skin make every shift of the wind feel like ammonia in my wounds. When I just want my bones to show, white and brittle, through the fog. Something makes me sick and the bile is gurgling at the back of my throat so I have to spit it out like some acidic mouthwash that makes me want to die. And I'm a maniac right now, a mess; I can feel my bones shattering like clay that got too hot, shards spearing my spleen and kidneys, feeling like cancer the way I have to double over. It's like my eyelids got cut off in your desperate attempt to make me see the light, and now I can't f*****g see all the time since they're all shriveled up like prunes.

There's a pocket knife in the top drawer on your dresser and it would be real easy to shave off my fingerprints, but I won't give you the satisfaction of knowing that you made me bleed (again). Your sweat tastes like regret on my lips and my stomach is ready to burst right through my mouth. I can't wait to wake up and run from this like the coward I always manage to be (how else am I supposed to deal with it?) and I'm impatient for the day I can't feel your weight on my memory. I've been torn apart and mangled by you again and again and again and again and it's not fair. I am not an object for you to kick until I explode when you decide to throw a temper tantrum. I am not your f*****g toy box.

Everything feels broken except for my heart.