I'm splitting at the seams and bursting out of my own body
but I don't feel like a butterfly escaping a cocoon.
My flesh is ripping apart as fat fills up my every available space
like a child blowing up a balloon until it pops in his face
Angry red lightning bolts appear to try and hold me together
This female mockery of Zeus' power won't keep me from exploding
I could take my athame and cut those crimson valleys in my thighs
deeper and deeper until there is no cocoon to break free from
my bones will escape and dance in Diana's fields
before cracking apart and showering each gust of wind with dust

He used to hit us.
Not too much though,
Only a little.
I was too loud.
I took up all the space.
He hated it.

I’m still loud now,
But it’s different.
Now I know why
The words still spill out
Even when I’ve nothing to say.
I remember that feeling
of a chain on my voice box.

I still jump at every loud noise, they seem to follow me,
Echoing around the streets, screaming at me.
But it is that fear of the unknown keeps me safe, sharp.
And when a hand grasps my shoulder on the sidewalk outside a bakery
I snap. Pull and twist it behind their back, forcing them to their knees
Before noticing it’s just Andy, but I still don’t feel too sorry. I can’t.
He should know better that to sneak up on me like that by now.

I pull at this skin and globular fat that clings to my bones
I rip at my brown locks like I’m weeding a garden
I scrub my skin till shallow crimson rivers fall from my flesh,
Brush my teeth till the red seas part my gums. Not still, but now.
It makes it worth the past, if you can improve your present.
If you can mature enough to realize that what happened,
Happened for a reason, one you’ve plucked out of your life.
Or one you’ve learned to embrace and apply with confidence.

I’m naked again, why I am always the naked one?
As I shift back and forth and listen to my joints pop,
And feel my muscles strain and spasm like an internal tick tock
Measuring how long I’ve been sitting here with each twitch.
White paper lining is crinkling under my ***
And all I can think about is the number of *****
Of all shapes and sizes that have sat here before I did,
Waiting for the doctor to come in and interrupt
Me reading all about how to tell if I have a hernia
Or looking at a distended bladder diagram.
“Hello miss, what can we do for you today?”
Oh I don’t know could you maybe give me my pants back
And pretend I’m not the thousandth **** you’ve seen this week.
Just some stripped down body you examine like a mechanic with an engine.
I watch as she catalogues the winces and delayed reflexes,
Searching for sensitive points and any patch of skin
With the telltale rough marker of Auto-immune.
The medication conversation lasts a while,
And she mixes up a new cocktail for me for the fifth time.
We talk about my life habits, “I’m totally quitting smoking.”
But I’m not. I febreezed myself before I came in.
We talk about how my body is doing like it is separate from me,
Like it’s some entity that ruins my day and hers on purpose.
It is always the same ****. I can practically quote her.
“Well, the test results were inconclusive.”
“Another cautionary breast exam.”
“Lets try the strength test again.
Are you even trying today?”
I am, and I can tell she’s worried, but in an abstract way
Like you’d worry about whether or not war will break out in Dubai.
It’s always the same scene, and I am always the naked one,
Whether I have my clothes on or not.

I can feel my heart-rate skyrocket
every time you touch my hair,
and every time you laugh at my jokes
it beats hard enough to burst.
And when you're gone you occupy my thoughts
whether I want you to or not.

Each time I feel a blush rush to my cheeks
or my hands tremble nervously,
I feel that flurry of school girl emotions
followed by a sick swooping feeling
deep in my stomach and up through my chest.
And its all I can to not to get ill.

You don't want me the way I want you
but its enough, more than enough for me,
and more than I ever thought I'd get.
I could never be mad at you.
The more I see of you the more I like,
whether I want to or not.

I broke my deep plum plump up lip gloss container today.
It was just long enough to fit in my hand and stick out just that little bit,
And just thick enough that when I gripped it tight
and slammed it into my thighs over and over and over
it left pretty pink circular marks along the cellulite.
Those marks gained in number until I was staring,
breathless and trembling, at a bruise the size of a softball.
I took another breath and hit myself one more time
and the plastic broke covering my hand and leg
in that dark purple colour I would see in a few hours
but in a much more lasting shade this time.
I threw the gloss into the bin inside the bathroom stall
wiped the mess up with toilet paper
and traced the bumps beneath my skin
Mad because I had to punish myself, but also
Mad because my brain told me I deserve it.

I fell in love the way only a young 20-something can.
So completely and so fully that it encompasses your whole being
and grabs your heart with a fist the size of a watermelon
squeezing with the strength of a horse
one in the last leg of a race to prove it's worth to the stadium.

Your heart was not seized with mine,
and you stared into my eyes feeling empty- both in reality and inside.
You brought apologetic smiles and guilty shifting eyes
to my swollen heart like a paltry offering to an angry god,
One who has already scorched the earth.

I love you. And you don't love me. And you don't love yourself.
And inside your body are piles of self-loathing left like laundry,
you won't let me in to clean or organize your mind, heart, soul.
Inside my body are piles of hurt, sadness, and anger,
but you can leave them be, leave them for me to heal and cry over.
You don't have to help me or even let me help you, just let me love you.

Blackened and blued flesh fades to green and yellow
but more will bloom beneath the skin soon.
Bruises from crazy nights out with strangers and *****,
or wild nights in with new friends (read: not yours) and ***,
and I never know when they appear, but I watch them disappear.

Nearly clear ***** lines the bag in my trash
with paraphernalia of alcoholism littered on top.
Bottles and cans and disposable $1.99 shot glasses
layered between Chinese take out and a broken six inch heel pump.
The smell might bother me if I was home more.

I haven't met the mornings for coffee
in what seems like years, instead I stumble inside
lay on a stained mattress surrounded by clothing
and sleep it off. It used to be different,
but without anyone to stop me, why not live it up?

There is no reason to slow down any more.
I have new friends and new hobbies
and I've nearly forgotten your face now.
So why should I stop, when my new plans
The ones without you, are going accordingly?

There is no real problem with enjoying my youth,
and if you disagree let me take you out with me.
You're the one who told me to grow up
when I said, "I love you." and if I choose not to,
I'll leave you at the bottom of whatever drink I choose.
There's no real problem with enjoying my youth, right?