Sabotage.
I try.
I try to be good, a good daughter, a good friend, a good girl polished smooth like bone. But the harder I carve myself into shape, the more blood I spill. A sculpture gnawed down to splinters, a body left hollowed by its own chisel.
This is not surrender. Not yet. It is only the hopeless throb that cracks through my ribs when I realize goodness will always rot in my hands like spoiled fruit.
My brain is a saboteur. A butcher with a dull knife, hacking at every tender thing I make. I speak, I reach out, but my words are carcasses, flies already circling. Even the saints cover their ears.
I am so terrified of being hated that I strangle myself in silence, until the silence itself becomes a scream.
All I want is for the people that I love the glow. To feel light I can not hold. I would slit my own wrists just to pour the warmth into them.
But my strange edges disgust, my autistic stammers, my frantic little sacrifices, love offered like dead birds. Laid in trembling palms. And the rare few who dare to touch me I drive away. A house burning its own walls.
Forever sabotaged, forever sabotaging. I am my own pyre. My own judas kiss.
And still, I kneel in the ashes of myself, hands cracked open, praying to be good. Praying to be loved. Praying the ruin does not outlive me.
