I talk to the mirror every day 

that man tells me I am warmer than the cold frozen touch of the mirror

but can I forgive her?

or her me 

her voice in head 

a thread of fate which is stitched through with

red

like the blood in my veins which bled

through my scars and cuts

I am a slut

for attention 

no panic prevention 

it attacks 

through the cracks of intrusive thoughts 

my war is fought.

I was taught to think I am evil

sinful and need to be saved

But the mess that’s made

is that we all look to a man hanging on a cross or tree

and don’t face our own selves and personal responsibility 

there’s no comfort in being numb 

in the corner 

over medicated 

frustrated 

about how your life turned out

we only have this second 

and the way it beckons us on

I know in your voice of hatred I grow strong

because it’s attention 

not what I wanted but maybe what I needed