city scrapers and mud stained boots

my skin itches
crawling with what
i deem to be
revulsion.

it skates along
my nervous system
pulls at all those
delicate threads.

it tempts me to
tear my own throat
to pieces, to shreds.
stain nails with bloodshed.

it tells me to pull my hair
until my scalp is bare
patchy and unsightly
oozing blood on my pajamas.

i find myself watching my phone with bated breath; lungs aching from the wait
and i feel guilty about the rush of excitement when i get your text message
because for all intent and purpose you're claimed by my best friend's unwavering crush.
but you've already said that you don't like her when i poked and prodded and i couldn't help but feel relieved. (and you seemed relieved too when i stopping digging my fingers into your brain to find out; like you had something to hide, something to keep uncovered by my grubby hands)
guilty by association of your messages, damned by the notifications. (i hide my phone when i'm near her, like it'll spare her any hurt to see my texting you.)
i feel guilty and nervous and i tighten the noose around my neck with every message, wondering when the ground will finally drop out beneath me. (and maybe it'll be my saving grace, purging these emotions from my body and leaving me guileless.)

your fingers are purple,
clutching mine.
your lips are blue,
watching mine.
your skin is white,
paler than mine.

hypothermia waits
for no one.
not death, not fear,
and certainly not like.