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Once, you told me how my eyes were
too brittle, and how the whites were
stained a parchment yellow. I told you
it was because of crying.

You would laugh it off with a dry chuckle.

“I’ve never seen you cry.”

If you had stayed for 7 more minutes, you would have.

The mirror is my bathroom is cracked into
something that resembles a disco ball.

It has hairline cracks and pieces that are
just missing under the sleeping pills and
the razor blades that’ll never be used.

I still see him though, the boy in the mirror who I don’t know.
(I’m sure you know his name. It’s what I tell everyone to call me.)

My best friend pressed her fingers on my cheek.

‘These are angel kisses.’ She said, trying to
cheer me up. I crinkled my nose and let
her believe I was happy again. We sat by
the shore and ate M&M’s. I tossed the
one’s that were your eye colour though.

In the shower I pressed my fingers to each and every scar.
‘These aren’t.’

Every night I would play a game, fully dressed in
clothes, I’d sink beneath the rose coloured bathtub water.

I would hold my breath as long as I could and just
let go. It paints the inside of my lungs and the water
would leak out from my mouth, a shade of red darker.

I’d just stare at my clothes slowly saturate with rose water,
I’d bite my shoulder and taste soap, roses and rust.