disorder of self

I lean against the bricks of the wall
they prickle at my clothing and hold me close
like spider webs at my back

Smoke claws its way down my throat
and I exhale my nostalgia into the air
silently hoping it will float away
in the acrid curls of my addiction  

There is no comfort in these memories
of sitting in a white room in the dark
the old computer on while a movie plays on mute

There's a knife in my hand
there is... was - always a knife
and cigarette smoke choking the air
a bottle of cheap champagne, almost empty
lies on the floor beside me as I stare at the ceiling
the phone cord curled around my bleeding arms
ringing out and into no where

I'm hungry
those days where of hunger
for food, and the scent of vomit
cut marks, and love
and another bottle of anything
to stifle the self loathing

Obsession always made me desperate
made me crazy and cruel
and I remember it all

The screaming phone calls and uncontrollable tears
the blame laid and laced with whiskey and a mobile phone

A doctor's office and tears upon my sunken cheeks
the hollow words emitted from my mouth
both the truth and a lie
I only thought I wanted to die

I remember the fear
as I stood at the glass doors of that institution
the words in my head "voluntary admission"

I remember the safety in incarceration
the sense that I couldn't hurt myself in there
that someone would be able to save me from myself

Eight years on and I'm still that scared little girl inside
hungering for something more, for something meaningful
scared to sleep at night afraid the emptiness will kill me
and useless words of arrogant psychiatrists

You have a disorder of yourself

© Indie Adams 2012