I never told you I don't eat because I imagine my guts black with rot
Because I think someone slipped inside, pulled those guts out of me, mishandled them, and stuffed them back in without a care, before I had the ability to say no
Now the doctors reach in with safe, careful fingers and the guts pile into my throat to suppress the scream that is years too late
And like a compass my body points rigidly towards the question of who made me this way
It doesn't want to be soft, it wants to be hard lines, it wants to shatter when touched so it can blame, "you, you made me this way"
I never told you I don't talk because my mouth is gummed up with the decay of a little girl that could have been
Because when I see your messages, I'm forced to mourn a death you refuse to acknowledge
I never told you I chose the passenger seat of that boy's car over you because I desperately needed the sturdy hand that bridged the gap to brush a thumb over my fingernails, to put lips to my knuckles and kiss where I clenched
I had to cling to those fever dreams of tenderness because I couldn't ever cling to you
Because it was easier for you to slap me across the face or pull my hair than it was to hold me and lie with the solid ball of pain you had created
Now that my bed is empty and it's my own arms wrapped around aching ribcage, shoulders, legs waiting to break beneath your weight, I whisper into the dark, "it's not your fault, I want to forgive you"
But I still don't know if those whispers are for you or myself