• qmwproject

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,

eyes averted.

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.




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