self destructive

i live on the floor in front of the toilet
in a restaurant i may go so far as to call my “favorite”
with fingers tapping the back of my throat
beckoning the nine-dollar-fifty-five-cent waste to come back up
retching and gagging and vomiting
until there’s nothing more than bile left
to flush down the toilet

and as i rinse my mouth out with water from the sink
i wonder why i waste money on food i don’t digest

i live on the edge of the razor
in my bathroom hiding from my mother
with cold metal on the skin of my thigh
slicing apart skin, tearing apart atoms and molecules
watching blood bubble up
aggravating the cut because it isn’t bleeding enough
for me to be satisfied

and as i press wads of toilet paper to my bloody legs,
pull my jeans back up to my waist,
i’m not sure why everyone’s blood but my own makes me nauseous

i live in front of the mirror
squeezing at blackheads on my nose
poking pushpins into pimples
aggravating the blemishes until there is no more pus,
only blood

and as i wash my face off with soapy water
i don’t know if the mirror exists
as much more than somewhere to watch myself squeeze dirt out of my pores

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