This book

I awoke at 5am on white tile floor, probably unconscious for a minute or two, head on an open fridge,
enveloped by existential dread, only a beaten/bloodied/written all over copy of Infinite Jest to keep me company.

It lay heavily upside down, the spine threatening to break, but silently holding itself together, sprawled on the tiles adjacent

I fucking hate when books are upside down and open, is it so hard to treat them right? 

Can't you see they are fragile, that they won't last like this
that they can't just be made hole with tape, glue, and hope

I took satisfaction in knowing that I finally looked how I felt

A right cross from my body that had taken enough pain from my anxious mind
A left hook to bring the mania to an end, for a just a minute

I had reached the height of my masochism, breaking more promises to myself, unable to deny the pleasure and release I have found here that they say is sadistic

Finally alone, I had found intimacy, the kind that usually floats above me, fleeting, intangible

We had set boundaries, "I just wanna make out tonight, I hope that's cool" I said

"me too" was the response

Then I got fucked, it was over at 10, they stayed til 2 

Their hands on my body, anything but human 

The space between us, an abyss, 

Anywhere but here I thought, a constant refrain
It echoed through my still intact skull, anywhere but here

the cuddling is always the worst part

The next day started with enough cigarettes and coffee that I should have felt warm
Lyrics from a punk song felt stapled inside my head, reading "anxiety another gift from you to me" repeating to the point of nausea
Nothing changed,  I took the cigarettes from my dry mouth to scarred skin, and made art
using tobacco to draw a flower on my ankle, it looked fucking beautiful

Some days I sit alone and look at that stupid flower and remember how I felt then
The scars around it tell other stories
But they are from the same book
And I am not so silently holding myself together
Because there is a civilization to destroy, and a world to create

And my blood will no longer be visible, but it will still course with me
And my wounds will heal and the scars will become stories
And I refuse to ever lift this pen from the page
And I will forever be writing this story