Last night I cut myself shaving, a silly mistake I haven’t made since I was twelve years old,

First holding the purple plastic razor in hangnailed fingertips, running it raw down the soft chickendown of my legs.

I watched the skin scrape free, hang loose for a second

Before being whisked down the drain,

A quick escape before the blood could start to flow.

I need sugar to scrub myself raw

It’s the only way to feel clean

I’m possessed of a specific psychosis

Filthy, filthy, filthy!

Reminiscent of a certain shakespearean queen.

I want to be baby-soft, all new. I wonder if it’ll make me worthy of you.

In the shower, as the water sends blue-black mascara running down my cheeks,

I think about all the different ways I’ve let you hurt me, and the ways I’d still like to let you.

But you aren’t here, and you won’t be when I wake up.

The pain is pointless. I’m rubbing salt in my own wounds in the hope of feeling something, anything.

I spent my whole life working toward being something worth wanting, an appealing product.

Then when I finally was wanted and it wasn’t everything, I felt like absolutely nothing.

What was the point of it all?

You said you wanted me, 

But still you kissed me on the forehead and told me you’re not good for me.

Am I not worth trying to be good for?

Am I not enough?

Even to try?