This was originally published in the 4th Issue of Bluestockings Magazine.
Content Warning: self-harm.
Do you see through my stubble? Do you forgive my
eyebrows? The shaking
hands that paint my eyelids
aren’t here today.
I’ve been drinking with the frat boys,
covering rusted crutch cuffs
with duct tape, and not making
as many excuses after I pass out at
I never cut my wrists,
I was smarter than to give my teachers, doctors,
physical therapists, and
friends a peek at the color
of my blood.
I was falling on the bus,
sputtering in class, walked in
with a red handprint on my face.
I was happy when my zits were
bleeding, who gives a shit about
Edited by Stefania Gomez, Literary Editor