Self Medication, by Sariah Starr
The words have become comfort
I’ve learned to inject into myself when
my mind won’t stop reminding me
that I’ve been broken.
Broken through the middle like
old glass, green and brittle.
Broken and she walked right through me,
I thought she heard me calling
though the blood came
spilling out of my
mouth instead of vibration.
It opened with nothing to get her
head to turn and she only caught the edges
so she didn’t have to feel me;
Cold and brittle and begging to be
swept into a neater pile.
I’ve broken all over her too many
times without even a flinch.
It is madness. I am grieving.
She’s taken a vacation so
the muffled misery doesn’t
start coming up from the gurgles.
From the blood sobs.