It’s the little things, really.
Small reminders of what I’ve done.
I stand too long on my foot,
The one that’s badly bruised.
Or I run my hand
Through my hair
Only to feel the bits
Damaged from flame.
When I pull my fingers away
They are covered in soot.

I am in constant pain,
But I don’t take painkillers.
I don’t want to weaken
The hurt I feel.
My suffering is a reminder
Of what I’ve done,
Of the mistakes I make.
I destroy myself
Over and over.
One day there may be nothing left.


I am broken.
Thousands of scars cover my body.
Words get thrown my way,
Like “dialysis” and “amputation.”
The risks for what I do are high.
I know this.
Yet I persist anyway
In my stalwart quest
To destroy myself.
When will I stop?
When will I have suffered enough?

One day, I feel,
I will be able to disentangle
Myself from this madness.
After all, I can’t live like this forever.
Death could come at any time.
All it takes is one slip
And I could be gone in minutes.
I don’t want that.
I choose to live.
I choose not to give in to the hate inside.

This is the promise I make to my body:
I see you.
You bring me so much pleasure and joy.
You laugh and cry,
You receive and reciprocate affection.
You can do so many neat things
And it’s time I treat you well.
The hate is a lie.
You deserve better.
You deserve love.