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)
Thursday, September 20, 2012
Friday, September 14, 2012
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.
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.
Sunday, September 2, 2012
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.
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.
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