Fighting Forward


I was falling, flailing, fearing;
I was sure I was alone,
and the blade, it was appealing,
and the heartache felt so cold—
so I held myself at knifepoint,
leaving scars across my skin,
and the burning was distraction
from the darkness I was in,
and the blood that drip, drip, dripped
into the sink off of the knife
was the sharp and thirsty sorrow
of a silent, guilty life,
and my smiles all were fake then,
sometimes frozen to my face,
because that’s what people wanted,
and I thought I knew my place:
No one wants a heart that’s broken;
no one likes a crying soul;
no one cared that I was fading—
but they might have, if I’d told.

I’m still falling, flailing, fearing,
and I fight to believe I’m known,
and I’m still afraid of fading,
but I don’t feel quite as cold…

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