on sundays

paint me out to be something i am not.
colour to my very edges, just inside the lines, careful careful fingertips and eyes and breath. i can be maroon, sky blue, anything you like.
wake up without me. roll over and find your hand chasing nothing, no warmth tangled against your knees. the sun does not shine in through the curtains. tell yourself you miss me. just make one cup of coffee.
here are the ways i hate myself:

• in scarlet lettering over my thighs my hips my arms my stomach, i remember how much has come before this. i am proud, i am sad. i am tired. it is january. i am always tired.
• in the fluorescent light of the gas station toilet, 10 pm and pale skinned, distorted and bloated and bulbous.
• when i write you out my softest fears, falling asleep with my head next to my phone, waiting for something that will never happen.
• the curl of her lashes, curve of her mouth. her bony knees are not much different to mine, but do you look at her the same? do you ever think of her when youre fucking me?
• i wait for you to message
• the vulnerability i try to gut myself of. it doesn't go away.
• i am irresponsible and endless.
• do i listen like i should? do i speak with authority?
• i eat toast too often and message pretty girls on instagram. 
• sleeping too much, and the nausea rises from my stomach. tie my hair up. count to five.
• i am not here enough. i am not enough. 
• i always drank too much, wore my misdeeds with honour, kissed too many long haired boys in the smoking area of bars. their names were always something like ben. i take too long to get to sleep.