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broken Jan 2016
"I want to lose a few pounds"
"I want to love myself"
"I want to be thin"
one step
two steps
three steps
you're in
it's got you now.
probably forever,
maybe longer.
you started with some healthy foods,
but then,
it's harder to eat anything at all
"Make me skinny"
"Make me happy"
"Make me perfect"
the little butterflies of teenage girls,
screaming inside their minds,
fluttering their wings
anorexia is glamour
bulimia is ease
eating disorders are the way to go,
it's so easy
who would have guessed?
distract yourself here,
skip a meal there
but then,
your body starts to feel it
it hurts
you hurt
everything hurts
you mess up
you eat everything you see
your body craves nutrition
you can't have that
you have to get rid of it
stupid, stupid, stupid
how could you be so disgusting?
you read this online once
those girls...
the ones with eating disorders
they eat a lot,
and then they throw it up
one time won't hurt,
it's just once
you feel better,
almost instantly
10 pounds
everyone is worried
you seem sick
you look sick
you are sick
they're crazy
you're not "thin"
you're not "happy"
you're NOT "perfect"
you're not sick.
"Recovery will save you"
"Recovery will guide you"
"Recovery will rescue you"
you shouldn't
you won't
you can't
but you have to.
the doctors are everywhere now
then comes weight gain
you can't even look at yourself.
10 pounds
you're fatter than when you started
but it's not so easy anymore
you keep eating
and eating
and eating.
puking ten times a day,
maybe more
but you're not getting rid of enough
"You look so healthy"
"I'm so glad you're better now"
"You've gained weight, I'm proud"
every mirror is a mental breakdown
you can't be sick
you're fat
you're revolting
you're a pathetic excuse for a life.
lose it,
lose it,
lose it.
tears fill the empty plates,
the ones you used to eat breakfast on...
when you ate breakfast.
you feel trapped
you can't get out
it has you.
it's a cycle, isn't it?
you realized too late
like so many other people.
it's not glamour,
it's not easy,
it's a living nightmare.
"I want to be thin."
"I want to lose a few pounds"
"I want to love myself,"
"But now I can't."
broken Jan 2016
the street was as dark as our hearts in a cold October that made everyone shiver until they couldn't feel their toes. it hasn't snowed, but the sun had been asleep for years it seemed. the orange glow from flickering street lights fit our complexions like the shade of lipstick your mother liked to wear to the silly school award ceremonies that even we skipped out on. the night was dark and those lights danced across our skin like we were nothing more than two pale canvases. and that makes sense to me because you had always reminded me of an art exhibit. greens and blues and ***** grays with birthmarks and freckles and scars that were sometimes by accident and sometimes not. they had given your display case the perfect amount of little spotlights because I couldn't see a single flaw. every line was perfectly contoured and the texture of you felt perfect against every inch of my body. I had the sudden idea that I could never reach anything better than what I had in the warm crooks of your elbows. my mind became convinced that you were the Mona Lisa to that small town, and I was only a pencil sketch, but display cases always make things look prettier than they seem and lighting can be deceiving if masterminds know how to angle the rays. I was blinded by those pretty display case beams like I was stunned by those walnut avenue street lamps the night we danced in the dark and you told me about how your mother taught you half the constellations before you were five and that my eyes reminded you of the brightest stars that night. but stars always explode and that's what mine did in the art showcase that was so misleading to me from the start of it all. you had a frame as glowing as the gold streaks of Midas. but somehow, wooden splinters came out of a gold frame the afternoon you expressed in angry screams that you were fine, even though I could see the breaking of your glass heart. you were beautiful, more so than dragonfly wings or water color portraits. you were a new genre, we are a new artistic creation and we belong in galleries, locked up tight because we can't trust ourselves not to fall over or shatter or spill our own colors onto beautiful pieces and end up ruining them. you spilt your paint splatters all over me, didn't you? I saw a masterpiece covered in stardust and I tried to touch it, even though it wasn't mine. I put my fingerprints all over that mess of creativity and genius, and it left a mark on me too... you left a mark on me. my hands hurt and my heart ached and I wondered what kind of chemical they put in those acrylic paints, but it wasn't until I backed away, covered in your greens and blues and dusty shades of gray, coughing up all types of maroon, that I read the sign below your breathtaking display case:
    do not touch
broken Jan 2016
roaring ambulance sirens
chill me to the bone
they always make me wonder
if you are dying behind those flashing lights
you were never very stable
the strings holding your soul together tended to break often
like the morning you ran
through 5am dusty gravel roads,
until your legs collapsed out from under you
a string breaks
your dad screamed a lot that night, didn't he?
his glass seemed to refill itself
over and over and over again
scotch and whiskey slipped into his words, like always
alcohol strengthened his grip, didn't it?
or maybe the afternoon,
at 2:35pm on a Sunday,
when you filled notebook after notebook
with reasons why you weren't worth everyone's time
the pills they gave you never really worked, did they?
your mother cried in her bath that night
she clenched her hands into fists,
and pulled her head below the water
she almost forgot to come back up
or possibly the evening,
behind white and sterile walls,
that your little brother,
had to say goodnight to you in a hospital bed,
asking if you were sick
his big brother couldn't handle his demons, could he?
he was only nine then,
but your mom didn't tell him
that she found his hero bleeding out,
in their brown two-story house
your father blamed you, didn't he?
it was your fault for being so weak
that's what he said in angry whispers,
the minute your mother left your bedside
could it have been the night,
seven years ago this month,
when your cousin couldn't take the voices in her head
the house was quiet that day
until a gunshot echoed down the stairs
and the atmosphere turned to copper
you didn't fully understand, did you?
the police officers crowded in your aunt's living room
questions and tears and badges,
a monotonous start to your development
angels can never handle being on Earth for very long, can they?
I think it was the twilight,
when the city hall clock said 3:06am,
as you sped past it on your way to the bridge
in tears, hearing your father's voice in your eardrums
"what kind of man shows so much weakness?"
"what are you good for?"
"what a shame you haven't succeeded yet."
his tyrades between liquor bottles always lingered
"you're never good enough"
"you're a waste"
"you're nothing"
you stood on the edge of that bridge, didn't you?
you were ready to do it
you were tired of being sick,
and sick of being tired
but you promised your little brother,
you would help him pick out school supplies
he was going to be a sixth grader,
school was only two weeks away
you hesitated
you got back into your car, didn't you?
you woke up the next day
and pretended everything was fine
spiral notebooks were on sale
your brother bought a new kind of pencil case,
with as many jagged edges as your unstable soul
it's been a year since then
and every time I hear the whining,
of ambulances rushing through town,
I get scared
that your last string finally
broken Jan 2016
your spirit wrapped it's hands around me,
cold fingers with chewed on nails brushing over my collarbones
"you are certainly worth getting to know better."
"you make me realize what I am worthy of becoming."
"you see the good beneath my bloodshot eyes."
demons do not scream
they do not possess children
they do not leave trails of black on your grandmother's white carpet
they kiss you
they lean in to your ear and tell you all the ways you two could be one day
"I want a house, and three girls,"
he would say, his hot breath filling my eardrums
"I'll be a pediatrician, so I can save lives,"
he would tell you, his hand on your thigh
"I'd never leave you,"
he would yell, in between thrusts between your red and gray sheets
it was all a trick
demons climb under your skin and lodge themselves beneath your bones
they seep their ethereal words into your bloodstream so that it can flow straight to you heart,
so that it'll be the first sound in the air when you take out your blades yet again, to release your demons into the atmosphere
they leave the taste of their secrets in your mouth so that they come to mind every time you speak
they break your heart and pour bleach into your eye sockets because if they don't want you then no one else should.
I remember how it felt
to sit on your bedroom floor
I see it in black and white blurs
there used to be color there
but it left with you
"you're the most intriguing girl I've seen in a long time,"
says the boy at the business conference,
he's trying to get you back to his hotel room
"you deserve so much more than this,"
whispers the baseball player,
he's trying to be polite
"I wrote you a song, since you remind me of music notes,"
tongues the musician,
he's trying to stop drinking
they're all trying
trying to be
so many demons without souls
one put his hat in my locker last fall,
he wanted me to wear it,
I didn't.
one put his arm around me last spring,
he wanted me to taste his lips,
I didn't.
one put his sketchbook in my hands last winter,
he wanted me to realize I was art,
I didn't.
but sometimes you miss demons
one left me because
I wasn't loving enough
one left me because
I wasn't slutty enough
one left me because
I wasn't confident enough
I was
closed off
with closed legs
and closed lips
I missed his smile
but he missed my body
I missed his hands
and he missed where his hands went
I missed his eyes
and he missed my bed
broken Jan 2016
They tell me to write how I feel but all I can think about are all the memories swirling in my head like an outburst of an addict just waiting to happen. And maybe I am an addict. But instead of shooting heroine in dimly lit basements with boys who don't give a **** or doing **** in an abandoned farmhouse off of highway 54 with the greased up girls from the stop and shop corner, I'm addicted to something so much more dangerous. Because instead of costing money or teeth or my mental capabilities, it costs the spirit of my soul. I'm addicted to spending rainy Thursday twilights tossing and turning restlessly under my laced flower covers thinking about how many lips your lips have touched since that far away time when you actually cared about me. I'm addicted to letting my eyes wander over old journal entries from back when this all began, letting myself imagine every picture perfect feature of the devastating war that ravaged my heart. I'm addicted to spending hours mouthing all of the poisoned syllables you breathed into my lungs before every letter and feeling burnt up into flames of gasoline. Before all of those silly, stupid ashes clogged up my throat just enough to silence the sobs of missing you. I'm addicted to driving down that road you took me on, just so I can pretend for a single second that things are almost the same and when my heart stops in a worn down, useless church pew or lying in a sterile, old hospital bed, my parents will shout drugs or stress, and my best friend will cry ***** or pills or a drunken suicide haze. But the doctor will come into the room with his fake empathetic eyes and his white coat pockets full of greed-earned money, and he will say in his calmest, most detached voice, that I, was an addict. And I, was addicted,
                          to you.
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