poetry for the poetic: 5

CV

i've been cutting myself again, i don't know if band aids and time can patch it up this time. i don't know if a poem can sing me back to sleep. i don't know if the air in my lungs will help with the breathing. i've been bleeding more and more– my words reach you less and less everyday. a poet with nothing but a headache for drugs and a heartache for words– i'm still numb, you're still numb. those red wine smiles on your wrist, there's nothing happy about opening yourself up to find if it'd hurt less. there's always more regrets once it's over, there's always more pain once you're patched up. my words don't mean much, but i don't know what else to do. 

i have these memories that just won't let me sleep, the stars dim themselves out, and even after that, i am worth nothing.

i can write until my bones break apart. i can write until I breathe my last breath. i can write until my next body hears my soul. i can write until i'm no longer myself. i can write until i'm mad. i can write until the scars fade. i can write until i'm no longer a poet, but as long as one word strikes a chord with you– i have done some good in this short life of mine.

i'll never be worth anything.

i deserve it.

i deserve it.