You spirit, you alcoholic, you drunken mess, fermented, broken down inside yourself; your molecules attach to my brain cells and start work, and I only drink to forget her now,
and the six months I only allowed you three-figure counted-calorie days.
I am sorry
for those weeks I refused to associate you with my name
until you were all collarbones and ribs like stairs to walk upon and sharp elbows
to push everyone else away.
I etched my lack of hunger into my skin for everyone to see but you told me differently
until I taught myself to listen.
I am sorry for the photo albums strewn underneath my clothes
which cause apologies every time I shed these white t-shirt uniforms,
I guess neither of us were thinking straight at the time.
Others assume I am looking for a nighttime sympathy vote
like someone else's hands could ever make any of this any better.
Sorry for putting you through those too-tight YouTube videos,
the sped up heartbeat at the mention of an ace bandage,
I apologise for ignoring you when I realised that this chest was just too girly
to ever justify attempting to hide.
I am sorry that I ever thought I would feel more at home in you if you were a guy.
I shouldn't have apologised for you all those times
like being a woman was ever your fault.
I know that it was wrong to punish you for entering double figured clothes sizes,
"it's just a number baby" and that ain't anything to be ashamed of.
If you were still a size eight you wouldn't look like branches wrapping around yourself
like an infinity symbol, it's kind of ironic really,
the way you curve under these clothes for such a lined little number,
then pretend because your legs know each other that your frame has something to be sorry for?!
How could I ever think because you held something as important as my brain
I could ever subject you to something as minuscule as a goal weight?
Your carbon comes from the stars and they are as beautiful as it gets,
and you, are so kind to me.
I punish you for never hitting five foot
when it was my own nicotine mistakes and mystery genetics that caused
this obsession with tall, and legs,
and why I question every day if I have an inferiority complex
because people assume I am up to seven years younger than my age.
I am sorry for the envy when I see those sugar cane girls walk past,
as if having more leg could make me any more sweet.
I am sorry that he thought I was more than your flesh and bones,
and I subjected myself to it
like a boy was what we needed to make us better
I know now that we were both so wrong.
But when the tangled 'I love you' got stuck in my throat you were the only thing left there,
and we were so young, you taught me how to choke back my words,
but I know now why you just weren't that into him.
And they sure told me:
"You pathetic excuse for a girl for falling into that,
you were so young didn't anybody ever tell you
he just wanted you to feel something?
Turned sour when you ended it,
you spent all those nights wasting your breath.
Why are you so confused?
You punish yourself when you knew this was all your fault,
you drag your broken body like she was anything to do with this,
you know why you're so small,
you stunted her out of any dream of height and
legs like envy
and 5'5" at a push they told you
but you wouldn't let yourself grow.
Why aren't you honest you've lost all of your friends,
why are you blaming this all on your body?
burying secrets like bones under your skin and flesh
that makes you a dog. You smell like dirt.
You smell like dirt and smoke and wasted breaths.
Like wasted breaths and all those skipped meals are coming back to you now,
you're still fat.
Fat like you can't carry yourself,
you can't carry your emotions any more,
they are draining off the ploughed chest she left you with
give them up,
dig them up,
cut them out like they can't stay inside anymore.
Stop trying to remove yourself from your own body like you
could ever scratch yourself out,
like she was something that ever belonged to you,
then send an apology to your flesh and bones,
oh, give it up you hypocrite nobody's falling for your ****."
So I tell her:
"I still see beauty in the way you move in that mirror"
and so I write her an apology letter.
grace beadle 2013
-this is mainly an observation