blunt knives

I crash and deteriorate into whirlpools
where I am hoisted up like
feast and
trashed relentless by
my own gushing thoughts that
drown me with pain after
pain
after pain

I do not breathe slow and controlled
like I used to and it feels like
my oesophagus is twisted into tight knots and
slitting apart with every pull of my lungs
sore and scathed
from the hundred times I slam into
resistance
to hold myself back from
breaking
and breaking and
breaking apart

I am failing so deeply trying to
place together pieces of my own
puzzles because somehow
the lines have become
disjointed
and I realize now
there are final pieces that will
never fit
and never
be perfect

I am looking under mattresses and
sniffing at clothes trying to figure out
why I can never shut my eyes and
why I feel invisible
but all I end up with are piles of memories that
shoot smiles to my mouth but
bullets to my heart
because my questions are still unanswered and still
nothing seems real
except the god damn tears that
continue to scorch my face
every night

And I have scrutinized every line on my body
in front of a mirror that no longer tries to
please me and I
swallow in truths that cut the knots
pleated down my throat
and react with gut acid until I am
crawling under blankets
trying to die
because the hurt is
unbearable

Would I be good enough if I turned inside out?

Will it make me beautiful?