Content warning: This poem contains discussions of risky behavior that could be upsetting for someone with a history of self-harm.
.
I tried skipping half the chapters in that book but I
still couldn’t get through it and eventually you
took out the bookmark and said, “You don’t have to do this,
I’m making the decision, you should read something you like,”
and of course for some reason that made me want to finish it,
broken thing that I am, being cared for makes me want to
do wrong things, I ask to be fed just to bring your hand close
enough to bite, I lean too close to the fire and adjust the logs
with my own hand too fast to get burnt but it upsets you I know
it does but I need to do it and to chop the vegetables
for dinner too fast so that you have to leave the room because
you’re scared I’ll slice my fingers and it makes me mad that you
don’t want me to be hurt and why?
I am someone who breaks, I am someone
who breaks and heals, who has broken so many
times over things that no longer mean anything,
a few others that still sting, but now I know I am someone
who can’t be ultimately broken, not in a way I can’t recover from,
I am like the bones and the plants, always growing back, even if
it looks a little different, even my worst nightmares are things I could
recover from, and why does it feel like a betrayal to think that even
losing you could be borne, yes I would break more than ever before,
but I would live through it and I would live through it all
