i’m not as well
as i would like
to convince you
and me that i am.

see through my bullshit.

i hit five years just to dive
into a tailspin.

the needle hasn’t fixed it.
the adrenaline faded,
and as i watched
and winced
and bled
i said,

“You deserve this.”

just like i once said
with a razor blade
against my skin.

i counted the lines
just like i always did
when lining my forearm.

but the needle’s not the trigger.

it’s the anniversary.
and my appetite
skipped town
that day.

am i doing this intentionally
if i know it’s wrong—
even if i don’t
want to?

please fucking tell me i’m okay,
even though i know
i’m not.