It hurts like hell
to feel my petals wilt.
Starting out, I was purity,
childish babble drowning in tears,
finding a high in the rush of self-destruction.
And I've gone on.
I've existed until I craved inexistence,
been brave enough to frighten myself.
Changed from a flower into a skeleton,
a collection of bruises clinging to a savage frame.
And now, I have to convince myself
that there is some sort of beauty
in my scars,
in my patches,
in the knotted thread I've used to sew myself together.
I don't know if I can love the places where I've become more than me
and less than me
at the same time.