Retribution

Every time something bad happens,

I drown myself in the bottom of a bottle,

and hope idly I'll wake up, but don't hold any anger to the thought I might not.

I fill my lungs with toxic chemicals until they ache, and batter against my ribs with angry fists once so pink now ashen.

I sleep next to someone without a face or a name just to feel my worth weighed in breathy pleas and ribbons down my back.

I exert myself to injury under weights I cannot lift, and stare into the mirror with bruising flesh like a bad peach until I am warped.

I try to bleed myself dry, however I can, because my blood is leaden.

It is treacle, slow and sticky and I cannot live with barked arms and rotten skin.

My therapist calls it avoidance. I call it retribution.