TRIGGER WARNING: self-harm and depression are the main themes in this post.
I meet my reflection and hold my breath too long. Now I’m gasping for air as I stare at the eyes, ears, and pores of the person I hate enough to cry about. I slip out of my overfamiliar skin and spill around the ankles that are always sprained. Cold tile kisses the peels of what I never wanted to be.
Hidden in the leftover steam of an imaginary shower, warm arms wrap me in good intentions. He begs to hold the dissolving idea of me for another minute. I forget about February’s wind and the folds of my short skirt and melt into the mold of who he wants me to be. In the warm glow of a tv screen he says I’m practically perfect—if only i’d suck his dick more.
I’ve never been very good at giving back. I shove almost everything in my gut and receive compliments like an ungrateful iguana. He promised he wanted to fuck me and I asked him to prove it. He attempted an explanation and his fumbling fingers found my scars. I swallowed the spit we weren’t sharing anymore and said they were stretch marks. I thought about leaving, but was drunk enough to stay and sleep on the floor of the room full of red flags. I couldn’t look at him the rest of the night.
A few months and a break up later, my hands wouldn’t stop shaking. I burst into the kitchen with bruises and watched the bong I helped pay for get passed around like an attendance sheet. I try to say hi, but my manners get caught in my throat. Everyone watches me wrestle to write the right words with my tongue. They just want me to smile. Cold air burns in my wrists and I fight the feeling that I’m not meant to be there. I think of all the bridges I burnt that I wanted to jump off of. Without an escape route, I fake love with a world that doesn’t want me.
I run upstairs to curl up in the bed I’m too tired to cry on. I forgot to bind my mouth with the plastic Invisalign that promised to make me prettier. Every smile stings with the finality of a closing curtain. I cross my legs at the ankle and gracelessly accept the dying roses of affirmation from an audience that wasn’t even paying that much attention to me. Without a sense of purpose I reach for the broken branches of solitude and hope to fall into a hole I can’t be pulled out of. I tell myself I need rest and everyone tells me to talk to them.
Thrill keeps my heart racing. I take my skateboard to the streets of a midnight moon and hope that only the mailboxes can catch me fall. My left foot pushes against the ground and I lean to an avoid a pothole. I’m not skating fast enough to be invisible so I plug my brain with earbuds. Sometimes I get lost in a love song and hope that someone will swoon at the sight of me. Other times I pray a person has just enough anger to point a gun at my too-big forehead and press pause on the memory of my mediocrity. Either way I don’t wear a helmet.
Eventually my bruised ankle hurts to much to keep boarding and I go inside to brush my teeth. I look at the dirty sweat clogging my pores and see how stupid, silly, and insecure I am. I never dreamed of becoming a formless freak show that fawns over fantasies. Now I’m too tired to do anything more than tie my shoes and be late to class. My well-rehearsed cup of coffee washes down my Lexapro and I lock the back door. Nowadays all I have to be is someone who makes it to tomorrow.
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