Poetry

Seventeen

Everything hurts.

Everything I eat, I drink, I say, rips my tongue.

I try to tear myself apart

Drop by drop,

Limb by limb.

I cut myself open,

Examine my insides,

There is a fault in my mechanism

Somewhere

Somewhere

I don’t know where.

I try to stitch myself back together

Again and again

I wipe away the blood with water

And it turns into wine.

I feast alone.

And although alcohol can’t heal this wound

I continue to drink

And eat.

I think to myself,

My tears taste like salt.

I feel full of everything,

And everything still hurts.

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2 thoughts on “Seventeen

  1. I’m not 17 anymore (44) but I still get days like this and I’m still here. Keep writing. Look for the small things that help and the giant things too, a mountain, a sea, a fantastic piece of architecture, a leaf, a tree, you.

    Liked by 1 person

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