Depressed

Whenever you say you’re going to leave me
I try to remember how to love.
But we’re two people who were never sure of this,
so we arrive at a feeling of both pain and joy,
where he tells me I am beautiful and I cry,
because I know that he's lying.
And all I have left are scars,
which are enough to make me feel sick at the sight of my stripped body.

We have spent our lifetime being told;
that next year is ours, that luck is something in the air.
That this drug might end our suffering,
that love will find us; but I keep letting it pass me by because I expect you to forget me,
but you say it's harder than that and maybe it is.
This year I am eighteen and scared to fall back into love
as if my body is a ghost orchid, mouth poison.
Watching men wrap me between their hands,
and present me as they drunkenly apologise
for things they can’t even remember doing.

The only thing that is out there is more trouble,
so I fall unforgivingly and neck two bottles of wine to forget
but it is not enough, you still see that I am acting so I pass out completely.
Until my smudged eye make-up is the only mark of civilisation
above the surface of my ghost-white sheets,
my nude fingerprints shed the night-light like petals.
I wonder how long this can go on until I lose myself completely.