An Ode to You

Why are you doing this to me? Except you’re not, you’re doing it to yourself, so why can’t I help but blame you for something you can’t explain, something even you don’t understand.

But I am staying awake at night wondering if you’re awake and if you’re drawing, drawing with a blade and your skin is the canvas. I’m wondering if your blood is running down your already scarred arm and dripping off your finger tips, staining the tissue paper you’ve put down to stop the questions from flying at you like bullets leaving a gun and aiming for your head.

They say words don’t hurt but that doesn’t explain why the voices in your head make you cry every night with the words they shout. It doesn’t explain why when people say something even remotely mean it is repeated in your head for days and days. It doesn’t explain why when people don’t listen to you it makes your skin itch and new ideas float in your head telling you what patterns you can draw on your skin next.

I stay awake wondering if you’re crying over something that someone wouldn’t usually cry about but it’s suffocating you and you can’t stop the tears from streaming down your porcelain face. So I don’t sleep.

I want to ask you how you’re coping but you don’t talk, your swollen lips are locked and you’ve thrown away the key, unwilling to go find it again. You told me why you didn’t like talking, you said you didn’t want to hurt me but what you don’t realise is that what you’re doing is hurting me so much more.