i'm dying. we're all dying but not like this. this isn't an ellipses, or a comma, or a run on sentence. this is sitting on the bathroom floor counting bruises and tracing veins that sing songs in the dead of night. this is twisted hands tapping out dead rhythms because they're anxious and everything feels hard. this is foreheads against the back of toilet seats, throwing up so forcefully that the bottom of the bowl cracks because everything i put in my body makes a storm and the only way to clear my lungs is to stick a finger down my throat until i am empty and pink. this is letting the shower water run cold because i don't care if my blood freezes. dying is cold sunsets from my window bleeding onto my bed, curling up on cold wood floor and letting the sad blue rain under my skin leak into the ground, sitting on the bus and closing my eyes and watching myself fly through the front window, rewind, replay, rewind, replay. i am a dead boy walking, a ghost scooped out by sticky hands. everyone i love left. i loved some more, and they left too. the love i have left to give coats my insides, sticks to my bones, whispers in the back of my head be careful don't let it go i know if i do i won't ever get it back and there will be nothing left to hold my bones together. please