break

he is beautiful but he is scared. scary. he is conflicted, unsure, a typical example of perfection gone wrong. his eyes are as inescapable as the truth: you love him, but he has never known love.

you tell him this- that you exist, that you are proof, that you want him to understand. he tells you he can't.

despite your good intentions, you don't understand either. you can write LOVE on your arms, but he doesn't actually feel it when he's cutting. you can tell him you're worried about him, but that doesn't stop his parents from abusing him.

you think he's broken, but it's really that he's been broken too many times, and you won't be the one to save him.

inspirhate

you inspire me to write.

...no. stop that. don't thank me, stupid, you don't know what I'm writing. I could be writing about how I look into your window at night, or about my plot to kill you. maybe I'm writing about how insufferably polite you are.

yeah, not so flattered now, are you? think about the things I know about you, think about how you've affected me, and now reevaluate. what do you think I'm writing about?

unfinish

you're thinking, ugh, I hate her. I see you. I see her. I see you looking at her. the way your mind works is on your face, the way your lip curls, the way you wrinkle your nose every time she tosses her hair. you're thinking, she's so ugly. you're thinking, it doesn't make any sense.

you're thinking, how?

I'd tell you how, but Jesus, woman, I don't know. and I'll let you in on a secret: she doesn't either. all she knows is she got lucky. didn't you see that? you were staring enough.

yes, staring. I don't mean that long, continuous look, where nothing could distract you. I mean those sidelong glances, the way your eyes linger when you pretend you're just scanning the hallway, that look.

but oh, honey, now you're thinking about it, and that won't do. you're thinking, no, she's not ugly, she's so pretty, no wonder. where will that thinking get you?

nowhere. that's where.

home

she pulled at the bottom of her t-shirt, discomfort manifesting as wandering fingers. slapping words that weren't muffled at all by the thin plaster walls reached her; more painful than the bruises she bore.

movement seemed impossible, a swearword escaping her lips every time her knees brushed the wall, jolts of pain making her jaw grow tense. her body felt too big for her bed, like she'd gained a few inches. although, it was more loss than anything.

turning over, knowing nausea was imminent; she curled her toes around the blanket and searched for warmth. wished for warmth. she rubbed her stomach, like a nesting instinct, like she knew it was right to keep her baby warm.