"I think this one is broken."

"Okay I got it, you have to be in the ******* thing."

"I'll **** your **** for 25 cents."

"Why do they have a helicopter?"

[loud breathing noises]

"I touched it and it ******* almost—"

"B, you're typing really loud."

[C softly singing 'war, what is it good for.']

"Let's get out of here."

"Dude, we've been out of there for ages. Where are you?"

"Should we run him over? Should we run him over? Should we—Yes, okay, we ran him over."

[A singing songs no one recognises.]

"That's not our car. That's not our car. Why are you in that car? Did you steal someone's car?"

"B, I am in lesbians with you."

I learned to make paper stars from the scraps of skin I pulled off. I am beautiful now.

i
                                                         am
                                                                                                                  not
                                                           a
case
                                                          to
                                                                                                                 crack.


i
                                                         am
                                                                                                                  not
                                                     someone
you
                                                    introduce
                                                                                                                  to
                                                        your
mother.


i
                                                         am
                                                                                                                  not
                                                   someone
you
                                                        love
                                                                                                                  with
                                                        the
lights
                                                         on.

TELL ME ABOUT THE GIRL THAT STOLE YOUR HEART. TELL ME ABOUT THE GIRL WHO GAVE IT BACK. TELL ME ABOUT THE GIRL WHO RIPPED IT OUT. TELL ME ABOUT THE GIRL WHO RAN WITH IT, LIKE A THIEF IN THE NIGHT. TELL ME ABOUT ME, ABOUT HOW I RUINED YOUR LIFE WITH POEMS AND SCARRED BODIES AND PANIC ATTACKS. TELL ME ABOUT HER, ABOUT HOW SHE DID NOT HAVE MY FEARS, MY PROBLEMS, MY THERAPY. TELL ME ABOUT HOW GOOD SHE WAS AND HOW HAPPY I MUST BE THAT YOU HAVE DOWNGRADED FROM THAT TO A GIRL LIKE ME. TELL ME ABOUT YOUR GOOD LIFE BEFORE ME, ABOUT THE DATES AND THE ***** AND THE ONE NIGHT STANDS. TELL ME ABOUT HOW YOU USED TO LIKE THE TRAIN UNTIL I GOT AN ANXIETY ATTACK WHEN WE WENT ON IT.
I AM SORRY FOR RUINING YOUR LIFE WITH MY PROBLEMS. I AM SORRY FOR ALLOWING YOU TO LOVE ME.

There is a difference between being right and being right. There's a difference between you and me, between this knife in my hand and the fist of yours. There's a difference between this bruise and that bruise, between this scar and that scar, between your promises and mine.
Remember when you said you were a man of your word?

Sometimes I fear I am more scar
than skin. More salt than water.
More gun than girl. I play the
piano; black and ivory softly so
you can follow me back to the
cave, to the gardens, to the water.
My body was not touched by
the boy, was not touched by the
girl that ripped out my heart and
ate it. I checked for fingerprints
on the side of my breast, my hip-
bone,the inside of my thighs—
nothing.
Their hands never leave traces,
never leave proof that one day
someone was brave enough to
touch the hills and valleys of my
body. Rachel Wiley said: *******
me does not require an asterisk.
Loving me is not a fetish.
He said: I would do it if you lost
weight. He turns off the light, but
I do not blame him. If he hadn't
reached for it first, I would have.
I keep on my T-shirt, make sure
his hands don't wander to places
I try too hard to forget are there.
They call me fat—I make jokes
about it so they won't. My mother
tells me that it's important to love
yourself even if you don't want
to. I say yes, then count the cuts
on my thigh, then smile.
RACHEL WILEY SAID:
******* ME DOES NOT
REQUIRE AN ASTERISK.
LOVING ME IS NOT A FETISH.
I DON'T UNDERSTAND WHY
YOU COULD THINK THAT
FINDING ME ATTRACTIVE
IS SOMETHING TO BE
ASHAMED ABOUT. SOME-
THING YOU WOULDN'T
TELL YOUR MOTHER. YOU
CAN TOUCH ME IN THE
BEDROOM BUT REFUSE
TO HOLD MY HAND. I AM
NOT EXTRA THICK
WRAPPING FOR YOUR ****.
I AM NOT SOMETHING
YOU  LIE ABOUT TO YOUR
FRIENDS. LOVING ME IS
NOT SOMETHING TO HIDE
FROM YOUR SISTER.
LOVING ME IS NOT
SOMETHING TO HIDE.
It is 11:31 PM. I am the girl they
like to **** but not the girl they
like to have wedding pictures of,
hanging on the kitchen wall.
He says: I would do it if you lost
weight.
I say: I would do it if you stopped
acting like I am something to
be ashamed of.
Rachel Wiley said: *I say: “I am
fat.” He says: “No, you are
beautiful.” I wonder why I can
not be both.

I didn’t realise I was a blaze until I was twelve and the blood boiled beneath skin until I cut it open—(free free free free free free)—and my best friend asked me what is this before saying I love you over and over until she cried. I didn’t cry. I haven’t cried in a long time.

I have been hating my pulse for so long I do not remember how it felt to be grateful for the thud of my heart—I wish there was a wikihow on how to ruin your body in the most satisfying way possible. I would read that until it was burned into my eyelids, I would whisper it until my mother still hears it years after I’m gone, words poured into the walls of my childhood bedroom.