Broken nails host my chipping polish,
and my shirts are caked with mistakes in permanent paint.
The floor beneath my bed is littered with things,
and my sock drawer, unsorted.
I’ve broken four mirrors in the past year
and I’m not sure they were accidents.
I’m growing my hair as a curtain to hide behind
but it’s heavy and it weighs me down.
In one of those broken mirrors I glanced into my own eyes,
and if they say the eyes are a window to the soul, it’s because the body is it’s cage.
I’ve been told to love my body,
but its covered with pink, puffy skin that cracks in the cold.
Maybe Maybelline can fix my face and lengthen my lashes;
erase more than surface stains.
Cold feet and a cloudy conscience wake me
hours before the sun will start to come up,
and I stay awake until I start to wonder if it will.
I’ll put on some socks and sleep tight to songs of sex and suicide
and in the morning my body will refuse to rise with the sun,
while my eyes welcome the light.