ho hum.

nettles and thorns.

I got ill enough to lose weight and now I don't want it back.
I've had so many compliments in the last few days I'm dizzy with absolute trauma it creates inside of me.

I'm adorable.




No. Not really. You do not adore me. Do you?
It's difficult for me to believe I can be more than just the wild girl who crawled out of the woods. To be amongst people.


I still hate it.

i'm breathing, so

Cruel days, cruel fingers, I am so incredibly hateful, indelible stains across my mouth and my throat.  Cut it off, cut it away, there is nothing left to remove and nothing left to look forward to.

That's the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool.

It's all
I
wanted.




I don't want to be him, but I am.
Nothing but rage and manipulation. Total control, total abhorrence. I can try to shove him down to my toes, I can clench and force and keep my eyes shut so he can't peek around when I am sleeping, daydreaming, gone. But it's useless.



I don't have anything to say.
What part of I will make you despise me do you not understand?






(I guess I'm still alive)

me, I'm not

Stretch, and don't sleep.
All my bones creak and pop and the noise is unbearable.

I want out of this hole I've dug.




No, no I don't.

I'm not shrinking fast enough and I'm out of my mind. Completely scattered. It always comes back to this. I can get shocked into wanting to stay, I can get shocked into giving in to the small, terrible part of me that wants to be happy, and surrounded, and so very, very brave. It keeps fading, faster and faster.

The only good thing about being fat is that my hair is wonderful again. I can say I didn't miss it but that would be the most unconvincing lie I have ever told. When you are as attractive as pond scum, you must find something to distract yourself and your sharp, cruel little fingers.

I want to hurt so much my throat is begging to be scratched.



I had a lot more to say, and well... not anymore. Friend of a friend (How awful does that sound? Completely agonizing. Thoughtless.) and he is no longer here.

I didn't know him, but I know how he died.
I also don't know how to deal with the rest.


John, if you ever read this, please know that I am so sorry. From the deepest, most open part of me, the part that wants, and the part that tells the truth. Please. You can hate me for this, and I can hate you for wanting to leave and then joking about it in a flighty, dingy, heartbreaking way, and you didn't even laugh. You didn't even laugh because you knew I was right. You're such an idiot.

If I was different, and I mean this - if I was different I would try. There would be no awkward dance, and I wouldn't leave holes in your wishes, I wouldn't make you so afraid. I would not add to your fear. I want to say I promise to try to be better, but I think you know why I don't make promises. If I die and leave you all I can do is nail you down with apologies that do have meaning but they will never soothe the hurt.



I feel like I'm going to ruin you. I feel like I already am.

i'll keep digging

I'm trying to find a point, some tiny shred of meaning and I can't.



Elaboration. Right. Incapable.

In a way I thought the anxiety was getting better. (It isn't.) I've completely given up on this semester. I keep repeating "Next time, next time, wait until winter..." like that's supposed to mean something, like I'm supposed to keep that close to my heart, like it's supposed to soothe me and make this easier. I'm trying to force "There are more important things in life than being beautiful." down my throat and I keep choking on it.


There are more important things to life than being beautiful. Yes? No.
I feel ridiculous when I try to defy that. There is nothing more important. I've spent too much time squeezing and scratching and tearing and cutting and starving and sweating and hating for that to not be the truth. Sometimes I can wear myself down enough, exhaust myself enough to think I don't care, I don't want anything, anyone, I just want to sleep. But when I've got plenty of calories and huge shuddering disgusting masses of fat, solid and thick under my skin, I've got the energy and the resolve to live absolutely loathing myself for not being beautiful. I can't die yet, there is too much of me.

I made promises, I don't care. If I die right now, when they find me, they'll peel back all the layers and find the heart of me. They'll see. No elegance, no sweetness, no sincerity. Vile tendons and bones, healthy, thick pus-yellow layers of sludge wrapped in ruined flesh, dusted with ash, and so many veins.

I put all this effort into trying to be acceptable. I want people to love me but I hate everyone. I don't want to even start liking myself, because that's when I fuck up everything. There is so much rage inside me and I don't know where to put it. I miss being emotionally catatonic because at least then I found ways to waste time. Kill it. And now I only want to scream and drown.

bone-pale, reeling

i'm so sick it's hard to breathe without feeling bile climb up my throat.
it's not a real illness. maybe it is. the undying ailments of anxiety, self-hatred and total isolation. i think i've finally cut off any ties i had with people. i've given up. it is too difficult for me to sustain any kind of relationship with anyone.

i feel like an outsider, always. always. how do people work? and live? how do people eat and socialize. and eat while socializing. how can you put so much trust in someone else? how can you be so comfortable in your own skin?


there's something i'm missing. that i was always missing. i could say i feel like less of a person but that would not be enough. that doesn't cover it. not even close.



i'm drowning again.
i used to think being over 100 pounds made me the most suicidal, but that number has dropped to 95.

i'm disgusting. nothing new.



it will be my birthday in two days. two days. like always, i don't want to think about it. maybe it really is an illness. i'm not sleeping well, and i haven't in about 4 months. i would say i'm drinking more water, except yesterday the thought of anything in my stomach repulsed me until i was gagging. even now, egg whites and scallions and an english muffin, two litres of water and my fingers are crawling deeper down my throat and it feels so safe. stop i say, stop that. you never used to purge.

i have never felt this wrong before, either.
every time i feel it fade a new wave hits; look at you, in all your repulsiveness. what have you done to yourself? you used to be stronger. and smaller. smaller.

shaking;waking

sometimes i can wrap myself up in precious little untruths. white lies. seiðr. it smells like incense and fire and wax, oatmeal lotion and sleep. cotton and leather and rayon. i can tell myself "i am better now" and sometimes i can even believe it. when that is asking too much, i can scream it, drive it to my skull with jagged fingernails and cracked palms and this illusive, incredible dream of normality.


i would like to shed this anxiety like an outer skin, i would like to go from point a to point b without fishtailing from start to (almost) finish. i would like to see prettier, kinder numbers. i would like a lot of things.


i am not better now.
how can i want to be so totally independent and then want the complete opposite. that's not even a question. i want to hurt more. i want to suffer.


it's not scary. my thighs are scary. the lake water in my eyes, that's scary. 


i need to get rid of things. past things. why have i hoarded so much? i don't want it. it's suffocating at every turn. i want things to be simple again. i want to go back to how it was. i was stabbed in the back, recently. "stabbed" is a harsh, untrue word. i've already healed. but it makes me wonder.


(would you chase me?


would i let you?


you shouldn't have left. it brought all of this back.)


i don't even mean that much.


it's time to branch out a little. summon a little bit of strength. it's hard to do when i'm this big.
i'm huge. huge, huge. cried an ocean. a whole lot of birds, and one little mouse.


i'll get better on that. and then i'll try again.
i miss dying.