Feeding On Emotion

My flesh is used to feeding on emotion that is not mine.

Every morning I replay a gruesome pantomime

Trying to make myself feel any love for who I was,

And every morning my spite puts on fresh rubber gloves.

There is no point in trying to stitch together my skin.

As soon as I heat up the needle, my soul turns paper thin.

I do not know how to move on or how to get better,

But I am certain that I cannot fix this curse with a letter.

Between therapists and nurses, and those who stayed,

I try to find just one person whose debts have been paid.

The more I look, the more I slip away from this reality,

But in these sweet moments I forget my own mortality.

So, my flesh keeps feeding on hurt that was never mine,

My brain keeps treating this avoidance like a damn crime.

Every night I howl at the moon until my voice breaks.

I have to make it to the morning, whatever it takes.

-Jackie