in this poem, i don't get so tired that my bones ache / there isn't me punching the walls or kissing anger on the lips / exhaustion does not creep in between the creases of my skin until i become nothing / i don't try to destroy my bones as if they were abandoned buildings / there isn't me trying to demolish / ruin / tear down / annihilate / all the remaining parts of me.

in this poem, there are always dandelions growing through the concrete cracks of the driveway / the house smells like cinnamon and pancakes / i don't go 237 days without telling my mother that i love her / i don't feel so distant from my father all the time / my sister isn't always constantly crying / i don't hide abuse under my tongue and learn how to swallow it / i don't keep quiet about it / i don't flinch when people touch me / i don't cry after every nightmare / after waking up / after every sunrise.

in this poem, i am gentle with my body / i don't apologize for the space i occupy in the world / i look in the mirror and see a goddamn miracle instead of a pile of some useless, surviving organs / i don't cry wondering why my body and existence aren't smaller / i forgive myself for the scars / i learn how to eat when i'm hungry and how to get out of bed in the morning / i don't wear my skin like an apology / i fix the mess / i cover the bruises / i clean the cuts / i remember it's okay to fall apart sometimes.

in this poem, i don't kiss people that taste like cyanide as if they were my cure / i learn how to let go of things / i don't ask myself when did i become such a tragedy / i don't spend time trying to be what the world wants me to be / i untangle their fingers from my skull / breathing, talking, thinking and existing don't feel like hard chores / i learn how to detach certain kinds of love from my skin / i look for myself in every crack of the wall / i don't care/ i don't care / i don't care.