I want to tell you.

 I want to write it down. 

I want to have the right words.

I want to feel them. I want you to feel them. I want you to feel what I felt. 

I want you to know. About everything. I want to show it to you in broad daylight. 

I want you to see it. I want you to face it. I want you to taste it 

when the water turns to bleach. I want it to blister the inside of your mouth. 

I want you to look at me. 

I want you to see me on my worst day. 

I want you to be there on the staircase— watch me sit halfway to catch my breath. 

I want you to see me on the table coughing up blood. 

I want you to see me on my knees 

pulling clumps out of the drain after I wash my hair.

I want you to see me be afraid to wash my hair.

I want you to know what I was thinking 

when I laid down to sleep at night.

I want you to know what happened while 

 

you were gone.