My mom feels dead to me.
My arms, my legs- I tried to feel something early this morning. I clutched onto my stuffed animals. I relapsed and I hurt myself. All I can think is why don’t you want me?
I told myself to hold on to the anger. Don’t sulk. Don’t you dare throw yourself a pity party.
I’m here, standing in the room with a party hat on, etched wrists and noise maker in hand.
I think I need a hug.