the boy in the laundrymat wearing ***** pajamas has a split lip and two dark circles under his eyes
you try not to look at him as he fumbles coins into old machines and trips over his own untied shoelaces

the man ahead of you in the supermarket checkout line
pauses briefly in the unloading of his grocery cart
to leer at the cashier, a young twenty-something with green eyes and a bruised cheekbone
you pretend not to notice the quiver in his hands as he scans item after item,
wincing at each beep and trying to look smaller,
trying to shrink into his own skin

the teenager in the subway is standing weird and you notice that he is attempting not to cry
the tears come anyways, and as he makes small choking noises,
you look away and stare out the scratched windows,
tunnel walls scrolling listlessly past as the boy wipes his face with a ripped sleeve

the sounds coming from the alleyway leave nothing to the imagination
you keep walking, even as an older man emerges from the dark, zipping his pants
you ignore the hushed sobbing, and as you crawl into bed that night
you can still hear noises that make you gag

you try to tell yourself that you did nothing wrong
but you don't succeed

you cannot help but hate your body
the gangly limbs
the stomach that sticks out entirely too far
the freckles that dot your face
you ******* hate yourself
every mirror you look at is a reminder of what a total piece of **** you are
so when you start to float, it's a relief

the feeling of not being you is something entirely new
the arms that are not your arms
legs that are not your legs
eyes that you can't see through

and better
you aren't a ******* girl anymore
this is always the worst part
you can ******* deal with everything else
you can
but not that

because you are not female
and you know this
except
except you are

the binders lying on the floor are telling you that you aren't actually
they love that word
actually
shout it in the hallways and whisper in hushed conversations that they know you can hear

actually

the sensation of being ripped out of your own skin
and then
calm
then
you aren't you
so you're happy

you can't not be happy when you look like how you actually ******* feel

the sensation of being ripped out of your own skin, then
isn't bad
because it's not your skin anymore
it's that freaks' skin
you're not a freak

right?

you've been feeling weird lately
like it only works when your eyes are shut tight
like it only works when your head is in your arms and you are fending off tears
its not that you're tired
i mean
you are tired
its just that you're not only tired
its everything else
its the fact that you've got nothing
so when you close your eyes and fall onto an unmade bed
it feels just a little less ****** up
you can't not, really
because the only place you exist is where you are
here
in a room smelling of cigarette smoke and city air
the floor covered with clothes and paper
books with the spines cracked
you can't not, you've decided

the subway is dark and cramped
fluorescent lights dim under the thick smog that shouldn't be here
your legs lock up
sudden
and then nothing
then only nothing
you don't come back until you're at the hospital
eyes bleary against the white light and yellow walls
as they press an oxygen mask against you
you can't help but wonder how you got here
here in the antiseptic dreams of cancer patients while you stare at the cracks in the ceiling
it's not that you can't dream
it's just that you don't
here against the black lights with pulsing music
here against the knife fights in dark alleys
you dislocate ******* and enjoy the pain
you chain-smoke Marlboro's for an hour and a half
and by the time you've finished two packs your head is spinning and you can't think
you scribble on a piece of paper until you can't move your arms and the ink bleeds through onto the kitchen table
you can't breathe for three days and when you can again
the doctors tell you that there's something wrong
you shut your eyes and you forget how to open them
i.v.'s appear in your wrist after two days and you keep taking them out
at your funeral, you can't hear the songs they play
because you can't breathe inside that wooden box
you can see the stars flickering above you but your eyes are shut
you stop being able to remember the third grade
suddenly nothing
and then only nothing

where do i get off
everything is moving
and i can't seem to get my head on straight
the grey sky above me
melting into the glass buildings
steel spikes growing out of the bone-dry earth
in your world
it's whiteboards covered in scrawling green text
in your world
it's not what you'd thought
the air around you so tangible that it chokes you
closes your throat and eyes against the pain
in your world
you can see the people
like insects
crawling the streets from the view from your apartment window on the 80th floor
in your world
the glass doesn't warp against the night sky freckled with bright lights and falling bodies
in your world
it's not the nausea that tears against your consciousness
it's more the darkness
it's not the desperation
it's the calm
beating it's head against your bathroom wall and saying over and over
over and over
over and over

in your world
it's the cigarettes at three in the morning
and after that
at midnight

you stare at the clock for six hours straight
but the seconds don't stop

the microwave beeps all night long as you stare at the blank TV screen
but the seconds don't stop

it's you
laying on the twin bed
arms folded over your stomach
humming along to music turned on in the background that i can't hear

it's you
in the car
driving slowly, arm splayed out the window
talking quietly, but i'm too focused on the moment and i miss the words you say

it's you
staring at the mirror
and hating what you see, glaring at your reflection
like there's something inside that repulses you and i can't help but wonder what you're muttering at the glass

it's you
inside the mirror this time
and i can't reach you
and i don't know why,
i can't hear you,
can barely see you

it's you
not that i can tell but i can
i mean
it's not me anymore that's for certain
that much i know - that's the only thing i know
it's me, on the ground, body crumpling onto the pavement in a circle of blood
splayed awkwardly and pale and lifeless

it's me this time

the feeling of an empty and churning stomach
- empty because you don't want to eat, don't deserve to -
- churning because you took too many pills and you are gagging and bent over the bathtub -
but that comes later
for now
you are leaning against the bathroom wall
cold on your cheek and it seems to stop the world from spinning
it's the only thing that stops the world from spinning
so you hold on

the light is on in the distance
writhing under your unsteady gaze and existing in another place
everything is a blur of porcelain and blue skies
rolling and twisting and
the sound of a knock on the door
that upsets your existence to the very core
you ignore it
and dread another

songs on the radio that you can't stand
that make you switch stations and then cringe
when you realize that it's on every channel

you start the car but you don't drive anywhere
just sit in the darkness, listening to the low rumble of the engine and
shrink under the sick drowsiness that permeates your every memory

you can't move
but you're okay with that