hi, what’s your name, who do you love, do you think the world is ending? i do. i like the idea of dying my hair pink, i know ten different ways to overdose, my friends say i have a pretty smile but don’t always like my face in pictures. hi, my friend said she wanted to make herself throw up her food last night. hi, i know a girl who went to Europe over the summer and all her friends were jealous but she spent the entire summer trying to relearn how to eat. and i wonder if i could learn that too. hi, my friend got drunk and decided she was sad and so she took some pills so she could become happy. i see her two weeks later in geometry. spoiler alert she isn’t happy. hi, i like the idea of fried chicken picnics but my boyfriend says that he won’t stand for animal cruelty. (He’s a vegetarian.) but somehow he is okay with human cruelty because my skirt is always too short and my shirts are always too baggy and I’m just always too faulty for a boy who writes letters to the state about providing more support in the school system. (too bad he can never support me when i say i like how i can make clothes that make girls feel beautiful.) hi, my mom said it’s just a stage to feel sad and that if I only give it two weeks, it will go away. the sadness didn’t but she did. hi, i think that drowning is scary but sometimes i like counting the seconds before i black out. hi, my therapist told me to write letters to everyone who left but i keep addressing the letters to myself. i left. hi, my friend’s boyfriend texted me last night. he said that she wasn’t making him happy anymore so maybe i should try. i asked him if he believed i could make him happy or if happiness was just a concept he wanted but could never achieve. he slept with jessica the next day. hi, some people say that i talk too much about feelings but i am just trying to understand. my heart is a muscle, why does it hurt. my brain is just nerve endings, why is it short circuiting . hi, i punched by hand into the wall over and over again. when it bruised, i laughed and took a polariod. is this destructive behavior or am i just a little sad. i don’t really want to die but i wouldn’t mind not waking up. hi, i am that girl who looks so pretty, my waist isn’t slim but boys like the rest of my antaomy. hi, i can’t tell what i hate more: myself or how much pink hair dye costs
Tag: anxiety
i find her tender / lipstick smudged / making the illison of a soft smile / on her face / and she asks / looking out at the sea of faces / so familiar that it hurts / “will this all matter tomorrow?” / will the pounds she lost to date him / will the friends she shed / the clothes she wore / matter at all / and i lie / because i have been wondering the same thing / “yes, of course……it has to.”
on January nights i feel as if / i am suffocating / through 3 am nightmares / turn down the heat / turn down the heat / it’s too hot in this empty room / draw back the covers / draw back the covers / and then everything is fire / everyone is burning / he reaches / his touch scalding my skin / i scream / he always hurt / his love always hurt / and now i’m burned from it.
it has taken me a long time to realize / that i owe it to no one / to have to a read a book / when i don’t like the words / and that applies to people too
shhhhhh
i put myself on bed rest. like a terminal patient of illness, the action is familiar. i strip out of jeans like shedding a skin i never asked for. next i remove the colorful patterning of my socks, throwing them without caring into a corner. i once imagined that my identity was found in these patterned socks, with recognition lighting voices when they where seen from underneath bathroom stalls. but like everything else foreign and invading, they go. bed rest is a sacred space. wearing a too big t-shirt like a comfort blanket, since big girls aren’t supposed to cry, i lay on my bed. i put myself on bed rest. i pull the smooth cotton of sheets over my head, and curl my legs into the messy wrinkles of my comforter. i curl myself into the most twisted shape i can, like an Eskimo conserving body heat. then with a trembling hand i push my fingernails deep into my stomach. the pulse of my thumb pounds an uneven rhyme into the cellulite and muscle, and i focus on it. i take the smallest beat and pinpoint my focus. the other hand i curl softly against my cheek, like one would touch a newborn. i am that newborn. i am so very scared of the world and so very new to all the bad. and so i put myself on bedrest. i snuggle into this cocoon of comfort, smelling the musk of home that’s forever embedded in my t-shirt. the white fabric scrapes my nose as i exhale, trying to remind myself that i am alive. i put myself on bedrest because i broke again today and my own anxiety held the baseball bat to my china-shop demise.
shhhhhh
i put myself on bed rest. like a terminal patient of illness, the action is familiar. i strip out of jeans like shedding a skin i never asked for. next i remove the colorful patterning of my socks, throwing them without caring into a corner. i once imagined that my identity was found in these patterned socks, with recognition lighting voices when they where seen from underneath bathroom stalls. but like everything else foreign and invading, they go. bed rest is a sacred space. wearing a too big t-shirt like a comfort blanket, since big girls aren’t supposed to cry, i lay on my bed. i put myself on bed rest. i pull the smooth cotton of sheets over my head, and curl my legs into the messy wrinkles of my comforter. i curl myself into the most twisted shape i can, like an Eskimo conserving body heat. then with a trembling hand i push my fingernails deep into my stomach. the pulse of my thumb pounds an uneven rhyme into the cellulite and muscle, and i focus on it. i take the smallest beat and pinpoint my focus. the other hand i curl softly against my cheek, like one would touch a newborn. i am that newborn. i am so very scared of the world and so very new to all the bad. and so i put myself on bedrest. i snuggle into this cocoon of comfort, smelling the musk of home that’s forever embedded in my t-shirt. the white fabric scrapes my nose as i exhale, trying to remind myself that i am alive. i put myself on bedrest because i broke again today and my own anxiety held the baseball bat to my china-shop demise.
Perfectly Imperfect Me 