mysteries
secret mysteries
hidden flesh
             hidden torn flesh
closed doors that shield red eyes
cold
        cold bodies
shivering in pain
just to feel it
cuddling cats with tickling whiskers
beautiful leaves that make you want to avoid this
hidden flesh
these red eyes
these cold bodies
that are formed from the depth of our connected minds
that aren’t so connected anymore.

I need reassurance

that the tides won’t

come in

      and

sweep everyone

              away.

I need solid ground,

   empty air to breathe.

A stronghold, a fortress

    that won’t crumble.

       I want it to be surrounded

  by lust

            and

                   red

                          in space.

“every time i feel my stomach convulse it’s a new wave of tears
take vitamins, she says
you should just eat, she says
you got skinnier, another says
“eat! eat! haven’t you been eating!? and this bandaid! quit cutting yourself, kalena”
and for a moment i think it’s truth
i think it’s honest
i shout “i do eat! they’re just cat scratches”
and if she would have lifted up that bandaid
she would have learned it was honest
it was truth
but it was melted away flesh that she would have found, not torn
but melted
and in the highlight of this moment i see all of my dreams come true
finally, someone notices!
finally, someone cares!
but yet she’s willing to stop eating. to make sure that i do.
my little thing. an entire 98 pounds, not by choice.
so unhealthy, so sick. all the time. so **** tired.
she would stop eating for me.
and though it doesn’t help, the thought is comforting. it should be disturbing.
it is. in the way that if she stopped eating…
she would lose weight.
and then i would fight harder and harder until my rib bones were sticking out so far they were larger than my chest.
emaciated.
bony fingers that boys don’t want to hold and girls don’t want to kiss.
hair that slides out with the slightest tug.
no one wants that.
except me, of course.
i want that.
i want to weigh 85 pounds.
i want to die.
i want to be so high on the emptiness that i die.
i faint. and they cannot wake me up.
eternal sleep. forever peace. and the best part of all?
I would be horrifically tiny in even the smallest coffin. “

I keep going over it all
in my head. I read this letter, how
he’s jealous of a clock. How he’s
made of the tiny things he owns,
but yet he says he cares more about
me than he does his worldly
possessions. Does that mean he cares more
about me than he does himself? In
that case, I’m worth a lot more than
I thought. Everyday. Every day. I think of you.
I was hopeful that you wouldn’t hit me with
the palm of your eye again. Your lips
and arms make my stomach convulse. And
then she touches you and I’m screaming
“No! Please. Please let me give you another chance.”
But you never. hear. me. Never. You laugh. And
if it weren’t for him, you would touch
back. Even more, probably. “It feels so
weird, going from never being touched to
being beaten."

"always wanting to be touched.”
“Please make me feel beautiful. I’m
begging you.” He choked me. Killed
some part of my torso. It was
important, what ever it was. Because
now everything is different. I’m so
sad. I can’t breathe. How am I
supposed to breathe with a broken
torso?” I’m not. I can’t.
I won’t.
I just want to hold your hand while giving you a black eye.

I’m just so tired of every day. I’m so tired of the gray and the way my body begs me and begs me for just a few more hours of darkness. And I never know if it’s asking that because it feels tired, or because it’s afraid that my thoughts and monsters might drag it out passed its’ limits like it normally does. It’s such an odd thing. I’m terrified of darkness, and sometimes it’s all I crave.

One half of me begs for summer days filled with shooting clouds and soft blankets that are hard to lay on because I’m sweating. The other half wants nights filled with angry music and dark clothing. Piercings and dyed hair, shoving my mouth against a stranger with tingling finger tips from what ever my ‘friend’ had given me only minutes before. One wants a calm surreal happiness. The other wants to get revenge on the world. Exhaust her body until it is filed down to skin and bones. Big heavy bags underneath my eyes that hold nothing but the reminder that I will always be tired. Splotchy cheeks, oh that’s right, I was crying last night. It doesn’t make sense. I feel so much more strongly on one side even though the other is so much better. For me. For me for me for me. But is it what I deserve? Is it what I see myself really wanting?

Who knows. I don’t want to care about me. I want to throw myself away, and in the meantime, hold someone else. Of course I wouldn’t drag them down with me… Or maybe I would.

Maybe I don’t deserve people.

Or at least I should avoid them.

But I can’t be alone, because a lonely life is a pointless one. And if I am pointless, then I am wasted space, and I should not wave my arms around in the air anymore. My lungs should not do their regular function, and maybe, just maybe, my heart could be given to someone who would put it to much better use.

My skin feels overused and overdone.

There’s sand in the cracks of my hands and I swear I will never feel satisfied in anything that I ever do. I am not soft to the touch. I am rough. No one wants to put their hand in mine, and wear me like I am the sea. No one wishes they could spin me around and push me off, so that I would beg and plead for the right direction towards them. No one wants me to love them like I so badly want someone to love me. And I won’t have it. I will never have it. I am not meant for anyone, because I am not meant for myself.

That is the problem. It’s right there. It’s right in my own face.

I am not meant for myself.

I draped a blanket across my window because my black curtains were allowing too much sun to file in.
I lit inscence which reminds me that I’m home, reminds me that my brother isn’t here.
I laid down, allowed my legs to stretch. Regretfully told them they were not allowed to curl up against me.
I just want to be unconscious for a little while.
I just need a rest. Only for some time, only for some time.
All of my teachers tell me that I can dig myself out of this rut that I was buried in, but they don’t know what goes on inside my head.
No one does but me and whoever is willing to listen
but no one really is
or at least, I tell myself no one really is.
Once people get to a point where they have heard your entire body saying things that make it shake and whine and cry, they build up fear.
They build up a wall. Because no one wants to take care of a shaking, whining, crying mass of anxious feelings and running mascara and bracelets that only feel comfortable if they’re on the left wrist because that body has been given everything on it’s right side and now the owner of it feels the need to repay the left.
There are wind chimes all over my floor.
I hear the sound of cars flying by my window, and birds driving by my head.
I can’t help but wonder how large the sky has gotten.
In this place, in this town, in this neighborhood, in this bed and underneath these blankets, I cannot help but feel as though the sky has shrunk around me.
I can feel its’ pressure on my chest, crushing my lungs.
This is when I go to a psychologist, and she sends me home.
I go home and I beg mother for lights that will make it look like I am surrounded by fairies, because everyone loves fairies.
I want to look up at night and realize that I’m not alone.
That these little creatures will always be there, even when I can’t see them.
But I need to be reassured that they’re real.
I need to be reassured that everything is real.
I need you to tell me you love me.