I.
My roommates dog licks, it’s just what he does. He lays on my floor and licks his paw until there’s a puddle of saliva and residue dog food on my pink Ikea rug I bought for fifteen dollars. Do details make it worth it? Or what does? It’s April and my roommate doesn’t groom him so his hair is completely covering my new maroon satin sheets I bought at a thrift store for four dollars, all clumped on my bed, just like I am in this exact moment. I have no details to offer about what is going on inside of my head, I only know I want to break my bones over and over again until they are better. Until they can offer more, or less, or just take me from point A to point B without the faint sound of crunching anytime I feel something.
II.
I’m not sure if it’s valid, rational, real or not but I felt it so I’m going to say it out loud anyway. I get here each and every time I don’t take my antidepressants, but I got too drunk and puked for 24 hours so there was no chance I was going to be able to down the one and only thing that makes my bones stick together. I’d say I should drink less but I don’t believe I’m capable of making it into a problem, I’m too busy exaggerating my position in all of these people's lives and breaking my own heart when I realize I stand for so much less. It’s usually my fault, I know that. We interacted for 25 seconds outside of a bar we once ****** at before they retreated off to the better, cooler, stronger-***** people I can only manage to feel contempt towards. It’s exactly how it should have gone, everybody tells me at least, I disagree, but it still made my spine curve. I talk like this because I’m completely out of serotonin.
III.
I write about *** a whole lot because I think it’s one of the few worthwhile things in this stupid ******* world. I’m only on this planet still for human interaction, which is why it’s absolutely terror inducing to be alone, but these days words have gotten me nowhere so I guess I’m content using my body instead. If there are no humans left to connect with, does that mean I’ve hit my expiration date? I worry nobody will make it worth it but that goes back to me putting my happiness into other people and I remember I still have to find a way to make these bones better, more capable and durable. I want an independent skeleton and to wake up without feeling the need to check the time. I’m not sure if there is a single person in this world I feel able to be myself around completely and I know that is my fault, too.
IV.
We can discuss the dynamics of the word “deserve”. I deserve more than this, you deserve peace and quiet and a world unmatched, I deserve an explanation, a cover up, a new start; all of these with such force the word starts to feel empty. Like drinking tap water. I remember reading in a poem somewhere about how many months, years, sacrifices it takes to be able to deserve to own another person's choices. Truthfully, we never actually deserve anything from one another. The only thing I am worthy of is these brittle bones. The only thing I have to offer is a constant worry in my chest that I am unsafe. I look around me and feel terrified of the world outside- the wind, where does it come from? These people, how are they doing it? What person woke up one day and decided life would be worth it, that we could create a civilization and a planet to make home for absolutely no reason or purpose and throw billions of people into it as well? I’ve been saying this life is a job I am not cut out for since I was 14. Even the items on the shelf right in front of my hands are hard to grab sometimes and I feel like I should start doing stretches in this supermarket but I am too exhausted. I am too exhausted spending my time trying to get to know who this person is that I am, this body I inhabit, this mind that is unfortunately the only one I have until I can figure out if reincarnation is real, or just something I tell myself to feel better about the bones I’m stuck with. I deserve new bones, right? I deserve more than this, right?
V.
Maybe it’s clockwork; mine and his and her hair on my bed, the dog panting to my left probably out of boredom because he has absolutely nothing to do, getting drunk and puking in the mens bathroom, not talking to them for three days, my perfume and deodorant and body wash all being rose flavored and the knowledge that this is just who I am inherently and the constant fear that that means I’ll never be able to grow out of it. I hammer my hand to see blood, I look at the bruises down my leg and on my chest, I wonder if I don’t take my antidepressants for seven days if I’ll have the courage to test my theory. Probably not, death is terrifying, but I’ll still try to call you and get ignored and I’ll ponder what I ever did to deserve such treatment. Am I too available? Yes, consistently. Am I too much, too loud, do I take up too much space and say the things nobody really needs to say? Yes, yesterday I called my boss an alcoholic and he laughed but nobody else did. Everybody else gave me those eyes that everyone gives me whenever I open my mouth, the eyes that make me feel like my skin has managed to come unglued and everybody is seeing my weak, frail bones I repeatedly break, I repeatedly try to heal, and gawking at my efforts. I put myself out there too much, too. I say I miss you when it doesn’t need to be said, I feel love when it has no business being felt. I crave my antidepressants that I still haven’t taken.
VI.
You say words for shock value and that makes you no better than any ****** white guy but I exaggerate how many girls I’ve slept with to anybody who cares to ask so I guess that means I’m the same as you.
VII.
steps that I am taking
