I'm Sorry By Gia Riverie

I'm sorry for screaming when the fuzzy moth landed on my hand. For turning you on when I lick my lips [although I wish I didn't]. For scratching my wrists so much that pieces of skin are coming off. For wanting to dye my hair black, so it would match everything else about me. For leaving home for days on end. For drinking too much coffee, and not sleeping enough as a result.

For drawing stitches on my lips with black lip-liner. For swearing. For not knowing how far I went. For having bruises all over my body. For not being everything you want me to be. For listening to my music too loudly while everyone in the entire fucking neighborhood is asleep. For crying until my eyes turn to raw sores, and my tears become oozing blood.

For lying. For laying in bed for hours, because I can't face the day. For accidentally pouring nail polish remover into an open wound a few years ago, because I mistook the bottle for my rubbing alcohol. For hurting my best friend. For blushing when my brother said I didn't need to wear make-up, because I'm pretty without it. For feeling the need to bleed for beauty. For being selfish.

For being incapable of so many things. For not being able to smell salt water without the feeling of loneliness. For not being able to taste blood, smell latex, feel ropes and sense the coldness of metal without thinking of sex. For not being able to see happy couples without being jealous. For not being able smell Lucky perfume without feeling almost sick with sadness. For looking at my scars and thinking of their beauty. For not being able to wear my choker without imagining your hands around my neck. For feeling inadequate when I write. For wearing eyeliner to try and hide myself. For not being able to be a good person, without feeling used by someone.

For counting how many pill bottles full of medication we have in the house. For waking you up in the middle of the night, when you worked the next morning. For exploding when I couldn't find my favorite shirt. For letting my friend stitch my arm with a sewing needle and thread. For being masochistic. For being submissive, too. For writing dark poetry. For sitting in coffee houses, alone, and scribbling furiously in a little black notebook. For wanting to end it all.

The sun is rising, and the sky is painted pink, orange and pale blue.

I'm sorry you're not here to see it with me.