I am not your flower.
You cannot pluck away at me
until you figure out
if she loves you
or loves you not."
I wake up tired.
but the kind of tired that settles deep in the marrow of your bones,
the kind of tired that makes you shake.
I spit the blood into the bathroom sink. I try to ignore how the insides of my cheeks taste like raw meat. I cough, and roses bloom on my lips. I think maybe I should invest in a mouthguard, or a therapist.
Study in the car on the way to school.
Last night my friend and I agreed we’d rather die than go through another school day. This morning, we are both in homeroom, with half-moons of regret hanging underneath our eyes.
Two classes in and I’m already numb.
Prom committee meeting, Spanish club, and trying to finish a history paper all at once. I don’t have time or the desire to eat.
I’ve heard seven people mention suicide today and they were half-joking at best.
Poetry Club is trembling verses read by kids who are all hanging somewhere in the balance between college prep and an early grave.
Time to run 4 miles on 2 hours of sleep.
Look at the bed and think about collapsing into it. Look at the desk and think about AP credits. Look at the desk and think about working for McDonalds. Look at the pocketknife and try not to to think about anything at all.
The rest of the family is asleep. I hope my Spanish teacher disregards the shaky handwriting, the teardrops on the page. I’m sure she will. She’s seen it all before.
I’ll get three and a half hours of sleep; tonight is a good night.
That is, if I ever drift off.
I lie awake, but I am dreaming.
Dreaming of GPAs higher than the average amount of hours I sleep,
Of SAT scores to match the number of panic attacks I’ve gone through in the past few years.
Now my stomach is in knots.
I dread the Psychology test next week, I dread the project due on Friday, I dread the laundry I haven’t done in two weeks, but most of all I dread