On a good day I hold my cup to my reflection and before the chill of the cup hits my lips I give a little toast and a grin,

On decent days I hold the cup and the bottle in both hands my legs crossed over each other like bed sheets and I chat away leaving no word behind and no cheek left dry, 

On below average days I’m on my back with my legs in the air wondering whether this man knows me is aware that the god between my legs slaves herself for pleasure cries out to the energies of this world seeking to know what type of mother she’ll be, 

On really bad days where the night rolls over to the morning and the sky forgets to turn blue I hold my body to the bed knowing we can’t merge into one yet praying the springs and foam seep into me forming bones and organs that function better than what I currently have,

On the low low days where the thoughts are controlling my body and I have no say over my actions I find myself hanging from the door knob in my room hoping to God that it works this time and I’m not left trying to fight off the urge to take my own life for the coroner’s statement to say it was death by suicide and my mother to cry to the heavens wishing she had just had a normal kid a kid who didn’t deal with things on her own a kid like the rest simply broken but not paralysed by the trauma that was her life