everyone thinks i am sickly because i was born this way,
which is true to some degree
but i become more sickly because i refuse to take medicine and get checked out
i bleed from places we shouldn't bleed and i remember mom saying
it's alright as long as the blood is bright red and not brown
and it's had a brown tint before but i never told her
and i count the pills in my medicine cabinet every day
even though i know i haven't taken any but i wondered if maybe,
in the middle of the night when i am in pain, i get up and secretly take them
and tell myself it was just a dream
once i took an oxycontin pill instead of my iron pill and i said it was just a mistake
but i know better,
i think you knew better, too.

you'd think as open as i am with my poetry that more people would know
about the drugs and the sex and the shitty things i've done
but i have begun hiding those from the new people i meet because my scars
have basically healed and i don't need another person crying when they hear the stories and
holding my hand as if they can comfort me enough to forget

it's alright as long as the memories don't change colors,
as long as they remain bright
and i think i smell fire all around me when i sleep
because i wake up sweating

i think if nothing ever makes sense again,
life will mean something.

01/23/2011

Posted on 01/23/2011
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