The Blood & The Bones

I can carve until my fingers break
until the blade hits bone
until my stomach turns on itself
and I will never find her again
what was it she was so good at anyway?
hiding pain?
asking for little to nothing?
debasing self to be fraudulently interesting?

a life of trying to be careful
all because of some numbers
on a machine
a numb trophy
awarded novel external worth
that didn’t mean a goddamn thing
if you actually loved yourself

but I was pretty

pretty and fucked up in so many different ways
where calls unanswered still mattered
because silence was too loud, too thought provoking
and trauma was just a word I didn’t know was mine too
where less was abundance
because nights alone I would reach for poison
didn’t it warm the skin just as good as the real thing?

I am years away from her on both sides
still not whole, still obsessively
watching the numbers rise and fall
I have not cut those ties completely
and the fact that I ever will is unlikely
but just being wanted is no longer the end goal
and that’s got to be worth at least a little more
than just being pretty

the blood
& the bones