bon appétit

it takes me a long time to answer,

because I take time to taste the words

at first they come burning up my throat,

like bile, like yesterday's food,

and crash against my teeth

do my eyes bulge,

with the effort it takes to keep them behind pressed lips?

I will hang on to them for another moment

rearrange them with my tongue

(just like tying cherry stems,

I taught you how to do that, once upon a time)

they'll clack against my teeth

until I open my mouth-

but I'll rethink the sentence

swallow it down hard

watch carefully for the word "unbelievable,"

you'll see how it takes effort to keep down

maybe I'll cough, shift in my chair, while

the word "waiting" settles itself in your mouth

you'll savor it, decide whether it's worth saying

while I dislodge "cruel" from my windpipe.

a bitter tasting word,

and I want to spit it out.

I wonder what you were craving

maybe I'll just go for something simple, bold-

"I hate you"

but no, I want this flavor to last

something that will distort the taste of food

hours later

so something spicier, maybe

"I fucking hate you"

(you taught me that word, once upon a time)

that'll work, right?

I bet you were expecting sugar,

accepting your apology with a smile

I can feel that taste,

sticky, sickly sweet, crawling up

no doubt that'd be a treat to you

but all the witticisms seem to spoil on my tongue

I taste salt

axis

pulling each other though the dark

hand on the curve of a hip,

the swell of a shoulder,

every which way as the sidewalk spins

I try to remember how to say ‘tectonic’

because it’s an earthquake,

us spilling out on the pavement

something about the shifting

in my stomach;

and my ankles rolling as I fall back,

because you shriek

don’t step on the cracks,

something about backs but I’m laughing

heaving and hard;

and the heaviness of my head,

pressed against your chest

aftershocks when your hands reach

needing balance and finding

my cheeks, breasts, elbow,

tickling, curious, and I smile

when they brush my lips,

and my world is crumbling down

you didn't need to tell me how good she tasted

her mouth was minty and fruity 

and kind of sweet 

all at the same time, yeah, I know

the secret's in her gum, you probably didn't see

she spat it out right before she turned to you,

looked up through her eyelashes,

(the most important part of seduction:

eyelash batting constantly

it is fucking key)

and you were done for-

yeah, I know, I knew before you did

that her eyes change green and grey

when she looks at you that way it's just

mesmerizing, right?

right- that's her good side, the one

with the beauty mark, (but not really,

it's just a mole. it's probably 

cancerous. whatever.) so she makes sure

that you're looking right at it, thinking

what an endearing flaw you have

all the better to eat you with,

my dear.

so you don't need to tell me

and you don't need to apologize

for enjoying it

breakfast

we joked with the doctor in the ER

about the Disney wallpaper and the stupid

soap operas, the only thing 

on at three in the 

morning

it didn't feel like morning,

like waking up

like waiting with my sister to see the sun rise

or like chocolate chip waffles, Lucky Charms

it felt like running on adrenaline and gross,

because I hadn't showered yet,

and realizing my sweater was on inside out because

we'd left so quickly, Dad had been so worried

I made a face when they pricked my finger

and at the charcoal drink

complained that it was nasty, 

chalky-sweet stuff, 

though it might be saving my life

(no one mentioned that last part;

or that I had no right to complain about taste

when I'd managed to swallow 20 Excedrin tablets

with no trouble

no one said, "well, at least you got here quickly;

some people need an IV of this stuff,

need their stomach pumped,

you're one of the ones we can fix easily

with just a drink to absorb all the bad

and a few years of therapy"

the nurses just laughed politely 

at how it turned my teeth black.

I smiled dark and gross at them.)

there are glances, and there are stares, and then there's what you and I do, which I guess is what you'd call glimpses. I don't see you, I see the color of your hair, the pens I hated and would never deign to borrow from you (no matter how much I needed one) and I see the sneakers that you wore the night I got too drunk and spent most of my night on your bathroom floor.

do all of these things belong exclusively to you? other people own red Converse, Sharpie pens, have that shade of blacker-than-black hair, and yet this particular collection of associations is all that I have of you. I have the particular way the bass of your voice thrums underneath everyone else's conversations, I've kept the scar on the back of your right hand, and somewhere very deep I've locked away your mint taste.

sometimes I wonder if you see me in blue eyes, bright orange backpacks, permanent marker tattoos. the burn on the collar of my favorite shirt, because it was dark and you went to light my cigarette and missed. I shrieked and you laughed but it was scary so I shoved you for being such a dickhead and-

I've put all that away too. the shirt in the back of my closet and the rest of the cigarettes I stole from you in the bottom of my trash can (until I can throw them away without my parents seeing) and most especially I have locked away the words we, us, together.

the type that calls the authorities when they wake up covered in someone else's blood, or the kind that doesn't? they type that still wakes up, with a start and begins to sob when this has happened again, for maybe the sixth time, or the one that picks themselves up and walks away, washing their hands of it.

argue that the second type is the smartest, the first type has their humanity.

but really, it's not like it's people they know. either type, it doesn't matter- maybe they're innocent people or children, but they're not family.

argue, not yet.

napping

I just, for once, want you all to leave me the fuck alone. honestly, if I could have a nurse at my door who told you "she's in too much pain to see anyone right now, come back later," I would. I want to disconnect and sleep and do nothing.

who made it a rule, that caring means devoting your life to that person? I care, I care, but I trust you not to kill yourself while I'm sleeping. do I have to believe differently? I love you, so do not cut/puke/fall in love again while I'm reading the series I've been meaning to get to. is that a fucking ground rule that needs establishing?

well here, I'm establishing it. I need to be allowed to tap out. sometimes people take vacations, right? let me live without your problems for one day once in a while.

is that selfish? is it wrong that I need time to recuperate in between all of your meltdowns? I think it is wrong, that i have to kill myself trying to deal with it all in the first place, but I just want you to get better, okay? I try and I try and I try but I can't always try, I can't prop you up forever.

so when I go on vacation with my family for a weekend, can I come back and find that you've been able to get on without me, if only for a while? and what the fuck am I supposed to do if the answer is no?

mother knows best

sometimes, your parents hide things from you. this isn't their fault, it's just necessary. some things are dangerous to kids. that's why they kept you away from the stove when you were barely old enough to walk, because you're too little to associate it with fire, with burns and owwie-ness.

that's why when you were six, they didn't tell you all the details of your grandma's death, because you could be content with knowing "she's in a better place, watching over you, always."

when you were 11, you didn't need to know about the family financials. you weren't worrying about getting a car or makeup or an iPod, you didn't need to know that you couldn't really afford it.

and now, well, you don't need to be anywhere near your mom's codeine. trust your parents.

wait, what? I'm 16, it's not like I'm going to take them by mistake thinking they're candy.

I'm sure no one thinks you're going to take them by mistake.

but sometimes I wonder

oh, her. that girl. I remember her. she had it coming, if you know what I mean.

do I?

you must have heard the stories. that girl wanted to die.

...what makes you say that?

so you didn't hear? where've you been that you didn't hear about that time on the sophomore overnight trip, when she cut herself in the bathroom while her roommates were sleeping?

just rumors, though, right?

or when she got drunk at a party, and made out with four senior boys? some people are saying she had sex with one of them.

oh, come on-

I hear she was friends with Ana and Mia, if you know what I mean.

I-

took prescription stuff without a prescription, if you know what I mean.

but-

you think normal people are found dead in their own puke?

...

you think normal people hate themselves that much?

... no.

right, like I said. that's never going to happen to our daughters.

yeah, of course not.

I'd never let that kind of thing happen. that girl turned out the way she did because of bad parenting, mark my words.

...

lucky Kaya tells me everything.

...

lucky you've never had any trouble with your kids.

yeah, lucky.

like vines we intertwined [x]

when she was thin enough to dance between the raindrops, I almost stopped loving her.

it might have been gradual. it might have been all at once, that day that I just screamed at her to eat the fucking cupcake because you're thin you're so thin and just shut up already-

and then I felt bad about it, because she cried and she couldn't eat, she said, it all turned to glue in her mouth and she felt sick and I couldn't make her do it. not if I really loved her.

you don't stop loving someone when they need you, you help them. you try to love them more.

so that's what I did, the right thing (right?), because-

because?

wait, I forget, why did I do it? because that's what love makes you do, really? makes you try when it just isn't worth it?

no, I can't say that. that's an awful thing to say. of course it was worth it, I wanted her to be healthy and happy, and it would make me happier if it didn't kill me first.

that's what love is, not smiles and rainbows all the time, because first there are bad "your mom" jokes and thunderstorms, first she has to get better so she can love you and not hate herself.

love was taking the baby steps, sitting with her until she choked down a quarter of her meal, it was not sleeping in case she took a turn for the worse during the night, love was forgetting to eat because I was thrusting all my food at her.

then she got better and I got worse and the only way I'd taught her how to help was to undo it all. I didn't blame her when she ran away.

pressure

I really hate movies where the solution to the girl's relationship troubles is that the guy is afraid to fall in love. that feelings scare him. I mean, what the fuck is that? since when does love work that way. "I want to be with you but I'm scared." I understand that part, mostly. rejection is a terrible prospect, especially when it's someone you really and truly love.

but why is the solution to just stop giving a shit?

what? wait, what? who made that okay? "I can't stand all the pain, so now I just don't let it affect me." bullshit. "I just don't care anymore." no no no no no no why? is indifference a better state of being? you can't just adopt indifference as the answer, and you can't call sadness a useless emotion just because crying will slow you down.

people don't cry because they're sad. they cry because they're frustrated. you know what's frustrating? bottling shit up. "numbing the pain for a while will make it worse when you finally feel it." oh, how cheesy, blah blah blah, I don't even feel pain because I'm so strong.

no, you're stupid. robots are boring. robots aren't people. don't become alcoholic and promiscuous to push all those feelings down, because you're just so casual and you just don't- shut up! I want you to care! I want you to admit that you're angry when you're angry and you're happy when you're around her, is that too much to ask?

l'espirit de escalier

it's like it all rushes out of you in a breath, your words your thoughts your objections to their very voice, and instead comes out "oh great cool" and "yeah sure yes" and assent that you don't mean,

just because you don't want to be mean?

because you don't know if you have enough tact or if you care enough that they'd get annoyed or just because you freeze up scared

and then later you think of witty things you could have said, like "shut up, you arrogant bitch" and "no I will not do what you want again because I want to fucking do this tonight."

you could have said all that but you didn't. and then the moment's gone and you're left with just frustration.

if you bring it up later, you're just obsessive. right? maybe you shouldn't object to your friends as much as you do and you'd be less angry.

you know what they say about idle hands

when you hear "not right now," you do not hear the implied promise of "but later." you do not hear the regret in the person's voice. you do not hear the apology that follows.

what you have heard, my love, is "not right now," and to you that means "no," it means pitying the poor one who needed something to do and got disappointed. and that's you.

you don't want pity and you don't want later, but is it because you're impatient or because you live in the moment? are they the same thing? you don't want to think about the future. it's a big thing, far away, full of possibility and other plans to make. you don't have to figure anything out but the present.

or maybe you just get bored that easily.

an autobiography

once upon a time, there was a girl. she was quite a normal teenage girl, apart from one very important detail: she could never remember to sleep.

sleeeeep. go to sleeeeep. the word was always on the tip of her tongue but it couldn't cross her mind. she went a day, two days without it, her world tilted at a strange axis as everything muddled in her tired little brain.

"help me, help me, make it stop," she would beg people, and they would command her, "sleep."

so she did, and she felt refreshed in the morning, and she went on with her day. she grew tired again, forgetting it all over, staying up all night and watching the sunrise, eyes twitching from her exhaustion.

she began to write it all over herself, under reminders for things like homework and shopping lists. her hands, her arms, if she could find a pen she would scribble it, so that at night she could find the happiness she couldn't remember, except that it made her feel better.

but it washed away, and being a teenager she had better things to do than sleep. the marks on the inside of her hand smudged as she stayed up doing homework, the ones on her forearms washed away in the shower. she forgot again and again and again. her parents, tired of being woken up at night by her music playing and wailing, simply put on headphones and went to bed, secure in the fact that they could never forget something so trivial.

she grew wearier and wearier. no one would believe this girl who couldn't remember what was so basic to everyone else. "I want to-" she would frown, unable to think of it. "I think I just need to- uhm..."

her homework became scrawls. her social life went away, because no one likes zombies. she went a week before someone could tell her, "all you have to do is.."

it was the cure to all her problems, but it seemed she was cursed to go on forever as this drowsy, half-alive thing.


(there is no happy ending. the girl is now on her third week without sleep. help her help her help her. before she walks into traffic or something.)

one way

I am so utterly and completely terrified of you. sorry, you probably thought I'd say I'm in love with you. or I can't live without you. but what I really have to say is that you scare the living shit out of me.

(that's not to say I'm not in love with you. I am. I really, really am. more on that later.)

how do I explain this? I think you may have noticed that I'm not very good about talking about what bothers me. mostly, the things that bother me are that something is bothering my friends. I'm an optimistic person! my family loves me! I don't like stress but that's mostly it. so really, I usually don't have much to trouble people with.

but then again, I sometimes hate myself. so there's that.

you came into my life and made me tell you things when I was sad. what'd you do that for? you made me dependent on you. maybe you're not the only one who understands me, but it feels like you are. so what if you leave? what if I tell you everything and you decide you don't care?

what if I finish my life story and you're bored?

I don't ever want to disappoint you ever.

today I learned the word "cutterfuck"

there are obviously different intensities of mental health issues. I think I should have realized this earlier, because the internet is the type of place where you're exposed to people with a myriad of problems.

but there's a point when you realize how easy you have it in comparison.

"I fucking hate my stomach and thighs, so now I'm dieting. 1000 calories a day." "oh, good luck. I eat one 500 calorie meal a day. and nothing on weekends." "oh."

like, shit. this is why people are strongly against online thinspiration communities. it's where you get a mentality that you could be doing more, doing worse, where you see the results of years of body dysmorphia and starvation and self-hatred and you say maybe if I did that... don't do that.

"shit, my friend saw a scar on my arm. I had to lie about a fall or something." "that sucks. I can't wear shorts because my thighs are completely covered in cuts." "oh."

shouldn't it be a wake-up call? your life could really center around your sickness, as opposed to it being a coping mechanism. but instead you just feel like what you're doing is stupid, childish, boring. look at your scarred, skinny, hopeless internet friends, and feel pale and fat and naïve.

you're not. you're one of the good ones.

immaturity

my dear, you're too young for this.

being perpetually sober and perpetually bitter about it is only acceptable when you're 60 and have beaten alcoholism, not when you're a teenager and you've been legitimately wasted once.

and you didn't even black out.

what do you even need to forget? you'll spend the rest of your life trying to remember these wonder years, darling. don't fuck with the process.

and just a note about broken hearts at fifteen- chill with language like that. hearts don't get broken, for one thing. they get crushed or punctured or explode maybe, but they don't break. they're muscles. your heart can make it fifteen years without doing the impossible. boys aren't impossible when you're fifteen, they haven't discovered who they are or what they can do yet.

and neither have you! don't spoil your entire future by having men measure up to boys who can't even fathom being someone who'd deserve the person you'll be.

that awkward moment when

when I was ten, or ten-ish, I was sort of a pyromaniac. I really liked lighting matches, letting them burn almost to my fingertips, and then dropping them in a cup of water. the sizzling noise was the most satisfying sound in the world.

so, understandably, I was excited about my dad's birthday, which was coming up. I begged and pleaded to be allowed to light the candles. my parents probably didn't say yes, but they didn't say no either, which I took as yes because I was ten.

the day came, and my mother, sister and I baked a golden cake. we made chocolate frosting. we ate my dad's favorite food for dinner. and then my moment to shine, I would get to light the candles.

but when I reached for the matches they were pulled out of my reach. my mother handed teh box to my father, seemingly not noticing my protest. I grabbed for them again.

"no." my mother glared at me. "daddy gets to light the candles. you're too young, sweetie."

now, I don't know about everyone else, but I was a stubborn kid and an even more self-righteous one. I could hear the condescension in my mother's 'sweetie,' and I wasn't having it.

"noooooooooooooooo!" I shrieked and stomped on the floor. "you said I could light the candles, you promised." which she hadn't, but my memory said she had and I really really wanted to light the candles.

so I screamed and screamed and probably beat my fists on at least one of my parents chest's as they carried me into my room. I knew not to leave, because that would just get me pushed back in, so I just stood in my doorway and yelled.

surprisingly, none of it worked. they celebrated without me as I eventually got tired and sat, arms crossed, in my bed.

later, my dad came and ripped up the birthday card I'd made him and threw it on the floor outside my room. I didn't care I didn't care I didn't care until I was crying, because I worked really hard on it and I didn't get to light the candles and it wasn't faaaaair.

and that's why I think my parents don't love me. or the anecdote I brought up when my therapist asked me why. truthfully, it's probably 'cause I'm awful to my parents on a regular basis and they shouldn't.

Song of Solomon

Then she tackled the problem of trying to decide how she wanted to live and what was valuable to her.

When am I happy...
when I'm not trying to be. when it's raining in the summer. when I'm early even though I left my apartment late. when my eyes look green.

...and when am I sad...
when I try and no one notices. when I get judgy looks for ordering dessert. when someone uses the wrong form of your/you're. when my favorite character dies.

...and what is the difference?
I'm almost always sad because of things I can't control.

What do I need to know to stay alive?
how to get around by subway. the five-second rule for food falling on the floor. my phone number. how to draw a perfect heart.

What is true in the world?
strawberries are delicious. a thesaurus can be your best friend. I'll never be tan. life is short.

Her mind traveled crooked streets and aimless goat paths, arriving sometimes at profundity, other times at the revelations of a three-year-old.

lost

I'm so scared. it's cold over here without you, and dark. I'm not- can't you see this distance between us? it looks like I could just step over to the other side but in reality I'm shouting all of this at you, we're so far apart.

hellooooo over there.

but you can hear me, that's a plus, right? you're not here. stop saying that. I'm alone in a big empty space, shouting to your figure in the distance. I don't know where I am. it's just- it's really fucking freezing.

ow. did I fall? my knees hurt. my stomach hurts. what time is it? there aren't any clocks here. I wish I had a blanket. I wish you- I don't know how to get back. it's funny, I can almost feel you holding my hand. but that's impossible, right? you're not here.

guide me back? I don't know if you can. you don't have to try, it's- okay. okayokay, I'll try.

I can't squeeze your hand, you're not here. but I feel warmer. does that mean it's working? am I getting closer? yeah, maybe I am. I can see you more clearly now, you're right next to me, smiling.

no, you're not, you're miles and miles and miles away and I'm just seeing your silhouette. I'm- I'm not moving, you're moving. please come back.

helloooo?

wake me up. tell me how to get back. tell me it's okay to eat again. come here and sit with me. I don't know what to do.

correction

love the person who's beautiful and funny and smart, and not the one who's right for you.

I get it. it's easy. whoever said playing hard to get was the way to go? no, by all means, go ahead and break your own heart.

because here's the thing, if it's that easy for you to fall in love with them, it's just as easy for anyone else. you won't be the first or the last one pining.

but you know what, maybe the moderately attractive guy with a dark humor and a B average deserves his day with you. maybe, just maybe, you'll live your whole life convinced no one will love you because the one person you want doesn't want you. maybe that's what you're doing to someone else.

and you know what, if they're going to love you and treat you right and the person you want won't, maybe you want the wrong fucking person.

DUI

oh, god, you can't tell my mom. I know- I should have never even left my house, officer. I know that now.

the smell? no, of course I wasn't drinking. officer, believe me, I don't drink. it's not my car. no- wait, I didn't steal it, it's my brother's. I, well, I may have borrowed it without permission, but that's not technically- oh. he can? my brother won't press charges.

I'm telling the truth about the drinking, though. I'd never drink and drive. give me all your sobriety tests, the breathalyzer if you really want to. I haven't touched the stuff in months.

why is that so hard to believe? just because I hit a tree with my ca- with my brother's car doesn't mean I'm drunk. I was just angry, okay? I was distracted, not intoxicated.

I had a fight with my brother. uh, kind of a, a big fight. then I took off. then I hit this tree. that's exactly how it all happened.

about what? oh, I don't know, how about you smell the fucking car? sorry, I didn't mean to be rude. he's just been drinking a lot and it's- it's really hurting my family. my mom's sick. uh, she doesn't- it's hard for her to deal with it right now. my dad died years ago. my brother was- he was hurting my-

no, I never called the police about this. look, it doesn't matter, right? it's a domestic issue, I dealt with it- I deal with it on my own.

I didn't leave my mom alone with my brother. I- look, I know how dangerous people are under the influence. give me the ticket already, okay? I have to go. I just have to get out of here right now. please-

it isn't blood. no, I'm not hurt. get off of me! don't touch the car- there's nothing in there, there's nothing in there!

...

it was an accident. I just pushed him, and he hit his head, and- and- I didn't know what to do- he was going to hurt my mom. oh, god, you can't tell my mom.

maturity

you spend your whole life a scared little girl, you start to wonder when it's your turn. your mentality twists and turns and becomes a mean thing saying, let's scare them just as badly.

so you're still a little girl, scared of the things that hurt and the people you love getting hurt and the people you love that hurt you, but now you're looking for ways to hurt everything back.

it's a game, seeing how far you can push things. it's fun shocking people, if it's jumping out in front of them and screaming or going on a blackout binge at a party. it's all the same, right? of course it is. and even if you get in trouble, it will never be that bad. your mom can fix everything with soup and hugs.

but you're supposed to grow up and out of it at some point. mom gets tired of bandaging your scars and letting you stay home from school and pretending she doesn't know that you're capable of lying. then what do you do, little girl? try and forge ahead without her?

you'll never learn.

believably

someone once told me that people who believe the lie deserve to be lied to.

and though it's quite likely I agreed with them at the time, what I should have said was "fuck off," because making general statements about something that by definition isn't the truth is stupid. there are plenty of reasons someone would lie and plenty of reasons it would be believed.

my cat scratched me. I had a big breakfast. are you talking about those lies? well, what if there's no reason not to believe them? not every person has a sign over their head saying "THIS IS SUSPICIOUS GUYS I'VE BEEN SAD/OUT OF CONTROL/MISSING SELF ESTEEM LATELY!"

and if they do? okay, tell me the last time you wanted to believe your friend was depressed and self destructive. don't tell me that if you know you can help or some shit like that; if there's an alternative you're going to take it.

and that person lying has their reasons to lie. if they're going to get mad when people believe them, fuck 'em. that's an egotistical thing to do. don't be one of those whiney people- "I say I'm fine, but really I'm dying inside. why can't you see that?"

shut. up. it's because you say you're fine. maybe that's enough for some people. don't get annoyed that people have their own problems to worry about and they can believe that you're fine. their entire lives do not revolve around every sad expression that happens to pass over your face.

snapping

these are those moments. the testing ones. the testy ones. see how far things can go before they don't snap back in place.

look at pictures of thin girls until you want to puke up everything you've eaten in the past month. compile lists of your faults until you want a scar punishing you for each one. think of each friend you don't deserve until you're wholeheartedly convinced that they'd all be better off without you.

but by all means, don't just test yourself. while you're out there wallowing in your extremes, see how far you can push everyone else. "will you still love me if I do this? how about this? even this? how about if I drink this and swallow that and cut here and burn there and tell you YOU CAN'T HELP ME YOU CAN'T HELP ME. would you still love me if I did all that?"

saying yes will just make you more determined to make it worse. it's so much easier if everyone says no, just reaffirms your beliefs that you're nothing. those who agree to stick it through are just foolish. prove how wrong they are. they can't fix you, no one can, rightrightright?

a recluse's lament

I've grown afraid of the world out there.

it's easy, too easy, to sit here and read about adventures or watch movies about beautiful people or look at pictures of amazing landscapes. all it does is make the real world as a whole seem that much harsher.

there are liars out there. and hypocrites and bullies and thieves. murderers! chem teachers! and sometimes it's not like the stories, they don't get caught. and then there's the pollution, the natural disasters, the politics.

no, no, no, it's much safer here in my room. I'll go out when I have to and surround myself with things that distract me, like lots of colors in my hair or pretty scents on my skin or a friend to make me laugh. create a comfort zone.

and then there's you. who do you think you are, trying to drag me out into the grime and the grit and the scrutiny of this world? no, wait, you're worse than that. you make me want to- why would you do such a thing? I can stay inside with my secrets and my netflix subscription and you can go alone to the amazing landscapes, with beautiful people, have adventures.

so why does thinking about you doing all that without me make my stomach hurt?

I want to curl up in my purple comforter in bed all day but I want you here with me, is that too much to ask? you can tell me stories about the things that haven't all gone to shit but who gave you the right to make me believe them?

I'd willingly follow you into the brightness, the confusion, the terrifying world out there, if you were just guiding me by the hand.

teeth

she noticed him little by little. he faded in and out at first, a static image that she'd tried not to notice in the corner of her eye. the only thing clear was his mouth, grinning constantly and his lips always in motion. there was no sound at first besides a hissing, a whisper where you couldn't catch the words.

so she ignored it and ignored it and ignored it, mostly because she didn't know how to stop it. and the vision got clearer, so in the corner of her eye she could now see that he had an angel's face that was all sparkling eyes and a toothy grin.

he spoke more slowly now, so she could catch words here and there. "no." "help." "angel." but always with the smile. she frowned and tried to figure out why he was in her mirror, in her mind.

she was telling a joke to her friends when she heard him completely. "stop talking," he told her. she blinked at him, unsure. and he smiled. "no one's listening."

he was behind her in the mirror as she checked her makeup in the morning. "no one's going to be looking at you anyway."

who are you? she turned around but there was no one there. but he was still there in the mirror when she checked.

"I'm your voice of reason. I'm the truth. I'm a guardian angel, just trying to let you know about the elephant in the room." his smile all teeth and angles. "literally and figuratively."

she was shocked, her mouth hanging wide open. he smiled smiled smiled as he and his truths dove in and settled in her heart.

graphing

imagine your life as a line. or your mood maybe. that probably makes more sense. think of all your feelings as being part of a line, like a heart monitor or a line graph of your happiness and your frustration. mountains and caverns of bliss and of desperation.

so kind of like your life, after all.

so imagine day after day your mood line is going crazy, down and up and down, each of the highs as extreme as the lows. it's balanced, alright, swinging from one to the other in steep slopes. this is what agitation looks like.

you just want it to be neat and predictable and straight again. carve your ideals into your wrist. even out the plane for a while, but watch what happens when it catches up with you again.

just a thought

I read something once, a proverb or a saying or a legend, about how soulmates are connected by a thread. it connects them, works around obstacles and distances and it never comes off. I like the idea of it, but I don't think that it's quite right.

maybe there should be a strand per finger. we have ten, right? and toes. that's twenty strands. I'm not greedy, I don't want twenty soulmates, but I believe in being connected to the people you love.

perspective

I think one of the things I grew up on was the principle of "bad things happen to bad people." karma, crime and punishment, basic stuff. and it's perfectly true- I wasn't allowed to go to the park for a week after I broke mom's vase, my sister always got caught when she put fake bugs in my shoes.

bad things happening to good people, though, that was a concept I was unfamiliar with until I was older. sure, I could go the cliché route and talk about how I never did anything bad (which would be a lie) and bad things happened to me anyway (which is a bigger lie). but honestly, I've led a pretty comfortable existence. sure, my family has some money problems, and I haven't had a boyfriend since 7th grade, but I'm a teenager living in New York City with amazing friends and no curfew. it's all some people could ask for, and I try to remind myself of that.

but you hear things about tsunamis and earthquakes and suddenly, your life is just blissful. hear about hurricanes and missing people and tortured innocents, and complaining about not getting an iPod and a laptop is stupid.

but that's how I grew up, where I got what I wanted and people who were naughty didn't. it may have been my undoing, because now all I can do is sit around all day and wonder what could all of those people possibly have done and come up with the answer nothing at all.

that's amore

I could destroy you. but I won't. not because you could destroy me too (even though you can. it keeps me up at night, that you could kill me without really trying). it's because I don't want to. you're my best friend.

so why am I telling you this? because I like to remind you. it's not about having power over someone that makes me like this fact. it's that handing someone the keys to your undoing is kind of a big deal. we can fight and we can drift apart, but we're entertwined in a way that not everyone can understand.

I tell you my secrets because I trust you with them. you keep them because you know what it means, that I can open up. and vice versa.

the lesser of two evils

I never never lied. or I never tried to. or I never thought you'd find out I did. who ever said honesty is the best policy? I'm trying to keep you sane. I'm trying to help you.

don't look at me like that. you don't know how it feels. you don't have the guilt I'm lying awake with. do you tell your friend how fucked up you are, fuck her up, bring her into your fucked up mind? or do you keep it all to yourself and hope that you don't explode, because that would just hurt her worse?

I don't know, I don't know, I was never lying before when I told you i would stop. I love you and you make me want to stop and I feel like I can when you're there.

but you're not, not always. I could never explain to you how it feels to be suffocatingly alone in the world. do you want me to tell you about the voices in my head, the skeletons in my closet, the razor in my drawer? because I know you want to know and help and sympathize but I'll just drag you down.

the Metamorphosis

it begins with a whisper.just a hissing sound in the halls. chances are, it wasn’t even directed at her. but she hears it and that’s all that matters, because soon it fills up her head- fat.

she doesn’t realize it at first, how the word’s stuck in her head, but it’s what’s ricocheting through her mind all throughout her lunch. fatfatfat. she finishes her fries and feels bloated all of a sudden, and pushes her tray away.

her friends are all getting started on their second milkshakes. “what?” they ask her, confused. “are you okay? eat something, you look pale.”

she stares at them, girls with fast metabolisms and dazzling smiles and an inability to feel insecure. she’s not them. she can never be them, but that’s not true. it’s just what her head tells her, what her now protesting stomach tells her.

she excuses herself, goes to the bathroom, pukes it all up.

this doesn’t happen the first day. or the second. but it happens again and again until she doesn’t remember when it started anyway. she can just hear the word, fatfatfat.

her friends realize something’s wrong. they smell it on her and see it in her eyes when she goes on her crazy binges. they’re scared, they don’t know how to help. they feel uncomfortable around her. they start to pull away.

but this doesn’t help her at all- no, on the contrary, she thinks it’s all her fault for being stupid, ugly, fat.

what an ugly word. what an ugly thing. she can’t talk to people about it, that’s an ugly thing to do. so she doesn’t stop.

and her throat aches all the time, and she’s kept up at night thinking of all the calories that might have managed to stick. her eyes have dark circles.

the more dull and disgusting she feels, the brighter, shinier everyone else looks. she wants to be it, but all of her friends have moved onto girls who don’t have to puke to feel pretty.

she wants to call “please, wait, I’m just trying to be you,” but her throat’s raw and she can’t make out the words.

they look at her like she’s a freak. like she’s fat, fat, fat.

so she stops puking, stops eating altogether, wastes away, and they barely even notice her as they go on being pretty and bright and clean.

(n)either

I can't stand all of this back-and-forth. weak/strong/weak/strong/WEAK/strong? which is better? what's the difference?

weak because I'm empty inside or strong because I resist temptation? weak because I take the easy way out, or strong because I've found the answer to my worries?

if I'm strong, I don't feel it. I'm tired and I'm sad and I'm empty, empty, empty. but the alternative wouldn't fill me up- would it?

I just want to sleep. I don't want to have to be strong but I don't want to feel the weakness of giving in. I just want to know you'll love me either way.

and I'd miss you too much

please don't ever leave me.

wait- I should rephrase, because that's not what I mean. I tell you at least once a day that you deserve so much more than I can give to you, to get out while there's still time.

and you laugh and tell me not to be silly. whether you decide to move on or not, I'll be happy.

what I meant was, don't ever die.

I know, it's a lot to ask. so maybe just don't die before me? I'm trying not to sound selfish, but there are so many things I have yet to share with you.

where the key to my 8th-grade journal is. how to make my perfect chocolate-banana smoothies. that I love you more and more each day.

I like, I like

things I have a love/hate relationship with:

-Big Baby from Toy Story.
shit, that thing is the creepiest, but it's a baby. so many conflicting maternal emotions.

-couples who manage to be romantic in unromantic places.
just minding my own business here on the subway, la-di-da-di-da- oh, the lesbians next to me are making out. well, that's adorable, I'm happy for them- WHERE'S YOUR OTHER HAND? NO STOP I CAN SEE YOU, THIS IS STILL PUBLIC, OH GOD-

-strobe lights.
they are ONLY appropriate in dark places. they're cool then, they make my lame dance moves look so much better. (maybe because you can only see about half of them?) but not when they're in windows on the street. I'm trying to fucking walk. don't give me a seizure.

-cigarettes.
they look all cool and shit right? they give you this "whatever man, I'm a hipster," kind of look. you can blow smoke in people's faces because you're just so superior. but they smell and taste disgusting and give you cancer. (this is actually more of an "I hate you but I'll pretend I don't" relationship.)

-the phrase "there are plenty of fish in the sea."
oh, come on, could you be more cliché? I'm aware that over half of the fucking planet is full of people I could be with. it's nice and comforting to think about until you realize that none of them are. and that you want a specific fish. and your net is ripped. and metaphors shouldn't be taken too far.

-nostalgia.
I want to revel in it all the time, watch old movies and do old things and be childish. I get caught up in it sometimes.

-lists.
I'm constantly making them, and sure, they're organized, unless you're me and you're constantly adding things all over them, so they're never finished, really.

decline

let's destroy something. let's rip it limb from limb or maybe it won't have limbs, it doesn't have to, it can be the fucking lamp on your bedside table for all I care, let's just tear it the fuck up.

why? does there need to be a reason anymore? look at the world. look outside your window. there's violence everywhere, in people's homes and minds and television screens, it's basic instinct. do bad things. get what you want. do bad things if you don't get what you want. it's the perfect solution.

still need a reason? fine, I'm just fucking angry, with all the violence, with the world for letting it happen, with myself for succumbing to it. but right now I just don't want to care about it anymore, so let's numb ourselves to everything with this rage we're feeling and burn the city to the ground.

clear

usually when people talk about addictions, it's formulaic. "you can't stop. you feel like you can't do anything without it, even if it's hurting you." blah blah blah. and then it's, "it was hard to quit but you push yourself and push yourself and it gets easier." blah. blah. blah.

it's not always true. sometimes, it gets harder the longer you go. as time goes on, you lose your resolve and pressures build- and even if you could go entire days without thinking about it before, you can't now.

it sounds like a good thing that the scars are fading- but they're the reminder, the thing that says "REMEMBER HOW FAR YOU WENT BEFORE, SEE HOW CLEAR I AM AFTER MONTHS OF NOTHING, DON'T DO IT AGAIN." your wrist suddenly looks uncomfortably bare without them. "remember how f... ar I am after... nothing... again..."

until it's just, "again."

Uneedmemorethanineedyou [x]

she was always a sweet girl- maybe that's why they wanted her insides.

they took them, it's true, but she opened up and let them in. she didn't know what else to do. "give me your love," they would say, "and I'll be your best friend."

but she didn't realize how greedy they were. they wanted it all. they smiled and said "thank you, love you," as they ripped out her heart. they replaced it with everything they didn't want.

and the sweet girl now had someone else's insecurities, sadness, fears, someone else's hate. she smiled back and said "love you too," but she couldn't mean it anymore. they'd taken it all.

but she began to heal, the good things filling up the blackness where her heart had been. and what she first regained was pity.

they didn't want that. they pushed her away and said "don't feel sad for me, don't, I've got love and happiness," but they didn't say it wasn't their own.

so she left and she regained her optimism. she made new friends, and they didn't ask for love but she handed it to them anyway. they were full to the brim with love and happiness that they had earned, for being as sweet as she had been.

and she wanted it. the empty place in her chest wasn't filling up fast enough, she wanted them to share. and they would have, if she asked. but she had regained her conscience. so she pushed them away, unwilling to steal. the blackness started to swallow her up again.

so be happy, basically

it's like when your friend's status is a song lyric about nobody caring and you feel personally affronted. but- but I care! that bitch, forgetting about me. or- or maybe she didn't forget me. maybe I just don't matter.

oh God, I don't matter.

and then you shake off that feeling and move on, because it's stupid. negativity for the sake of negativity is stupid.

and no one seems to remember that!

which

you're living in a fantasy world where he loves you- in reality you have no idea.

or is the fantasy that you don't know? is your reality that he doesn't?

wake up.

a negative

she loved cooking, I remember that. she loved it loved it loved it. she would make three different things at once. spaghetti with homemade sauce and vegan sausages, rice with sautéed vegetables, Greek omelets. she loved dessert the most, because it was the stickiest, messiest, most involved work.

everything always smelled delicious. she laid it out on nicely colored plates, added garnishes, made it neat and perfect.

and then she threw it all down the garbage disposal.

"doesn't it sound like it's hungry, G? sounds like a rumbly tummy." I would nod and nod and watch it drip off of the plate in her hand, strawberry shortcake, penne with vodka sauce, french fries. it disappeared, drippy gooey down the drain, colors mixing into an unappetizing brownish. but the smell.

"doesn't it smell lovely? G- G, you can't eat it though, it's pretty then it's gone." and she would smile. "like us, G, we'll be gonegonegone."

and it scared me, because I didn't want to be gonegonegone, even if i was pretty. but she told me it was okay.

"because we'll be together, pretty and together. G, we're just going to float away."

but I'm not gone and she didn't float. and she wasn't pretty either, not when she was too weak to hold pots of water and too tired to pour it all down the sink when she did manage food. it sat in our little apartment for weeks. I sat and watched it spoiling for hours, nothing to do while she slept and withered away.

she told me, "I feel goooone. but I'm not. I'm here because you're here, G." I nodded and nodded. "come with me, G, why aren't you like me, G, I can't move my arms..."

I didn't know why I wasn't like her. maybe the smell was sustaining me. she always got rid of all the food she made, dumped it and never left a drop. I never touched the fridge, or the pantry, just curled on the kitchen chair and watched flies circle around the dishes, still on the table. but I wasn't gone.

she was a negative, crumbling away by the minute, but I was steadfastly a zero zero zero. I wouldn't ever be gone. and then she was.

they cleared her food away, stuffed me with things that didn't smell like anything. I was bloated but I still felt like a zero zero zero. I could hear her voice in my ear.

"I'm here because you're here, G." and she was there, telling me "we'll be gonegonegone."

out

your fingers are sticky from the ice cream you shared with your best friend an hour ago. your hair has been straightened by your mother in preparation for the party. you finally got your makeup right.

this is how you die.

did you expect it? you certainly didn't show surprise as you hit the pavement, but maybe you just didn't have enough time to react. this will be one of the sources of debate for the next couple of months.

did you jump? were you pushed? was it an accident, like the paper said? you were just drunk when you leaned against the railing, went too far. you fell.

but what if it wasn't? what if you meant to fall? no one wants to believe it, though everyone seems to be saying it. "she was always so quiet," as if this is an excuse for believing you were severely depressed.

really, it's the go-to excuse for not knowing enough about you. they can't ever see the signs if you never really showed them, right? it keeps the guilt at bay, for most people.

relapses

back to the start, but now with experience and sans the naïvety. how old do you feel, repeating those same old lines? knowing that they didn't work the first time?

"no. stop. don't." do you mean it? do you even try to sound like you do? it would almost be sarcasm if it didn't make your heart hurt, knowing it was futile. "you shouldn't." you're just doing this so you can say you tried. no one knows better than you that it doesn't work.

is it your fault that people relapse? that what you say won't always stick? "I love you you'remyfriend no don'tdothis" it all blends together into "pleasepleaseplease" and their response becomes "Iwon'tIwon'tIwon'tsorrysorrysorry." (but it really means "I will, but I'll be sorrysorrysorry")

we all want to be helpful, but we don't like being reminded that we're not good at it.

us girls

if you won't be afraid for me, you will be afraid of me.

skin a map of scars and track marks, smelling like liquor and smoke. razor sharp hipbones with ladder rung ribs. I am the monster girl, eyes red and hair falling out, beautiful dying frightening, can't you just see her now?

no, no, I am normal. I am bright and cheery and I want to be loved, that's it.

but is that true? I'm not either. there's a monster in my chest, and she's me but she's also just a part of me but she wants to come out, in my blood in my puke in my tears, wants to be quenched by chemicals, and I can't separate us, us monster girls. no, her- no, me?

no. that's wrong, badstupidwrong, I'm okay and I just want to be thinner, happier, better. not me badstupidwrong a monster. I can make her go away if I just- I don't know because I can't hear with her whispering in my ear make her stop, make her-

stop. breathe. I can't hurt her if she's me, so I'll hurt me so I won't do anything?

she was normal too, my monster girl, but she wanted more attention than she was worth could get.

friendship

I like this. the darkness, the heat, the silence.

and then you pull the covers off, and it's like the fucking apocalypse how everything just comes rushing to get me. light and sound and fuck, is it freezing.

"whyyyyyyyyy," more of a moan than a question, and you answer by pulling the curtains open, and uuuuugh sunlight it hurts I just want to sleep.

thank God for pillows. I bury my face in one, but you're taking that away from me too, saying "upupupup" like it's one word, "upupUPUPupcomeongetup." I answer without spaces too, "don'twannaIwassleeping."

"no you weren't." no, I wasn't, but I don't have to stop. "you were avoiding." maybe. "and you have to get up." nuh-uh.

"nuh-uh." and I grab for the pillow, but you jump backwards. "give it back. I don't ever have to leave ever I wanna SLEEP."

"sooner or later you have to face the world." "but I pr-" "and don't say you prefer later, bitch, you don't get a choice."

"well, fuck off, voice of reason, I like having a choice."

"we're-" you're cut off by me tossing the covers over your head.

"DON'T SAY IT. I'll get up." I grab the pillow and clutch it to my chest, but I'm standing. the covers fall to the floor and you glare at me, hair a mess.

"you're lucky you're fragile and I love you and shit."

"yeah."

"we're wo-" I clap a hand over your mouth. "hrrabmmu-"

"I know I know I know. shh."

"mmprruhah-"

"I can't hear it, okay? just know that I know and knowing is doing enough to me, I don't want you to ever say the word 'worry.' I get it."

"kuhootmmf?"

"what?" you lick my hand. "oh." I move it.

"thank you. here's the thing though, you have to hear it. everyone's afraid to come up here or something, and it's getting really depressing without you."

"really depressing without the girl who tried to k-"

"you're not allowed to say that, either. we're putting all this behind us. you're going to come downstairs and hug people and thank them for being-" I raise my hand. "w-o-r-r-i-e-d."

"I just want to sleep."

"you got enough sleep in the hospital."

"yeah but only for like 12 hours, and that was yesterday."

"you're coming downstairs."

"but-"

"we can't have your birthday without you."

"...fine."

speak

my voice has been gone for a long time.

well, not literally. I still have a voice. but the real one, the one that breaks sometimes and is hoarse when I've laughed or screamed too long, I don't know where it's gone. I've locked it up somewhere along with the feelings it used to convey.

except for the one I can't seem to shake, which is the hopeful feeling, that someone will make me laugh so hard that it'll all come tumbling out, try and make me speak genuinely. is that really too much to ask? that someone can hear what isn't there?

be careful what you

I want us to go back. undo this. maybe I'll do the same things, but I want you to be unaffected by them. this is like one of those bad dreams or fairy tales where your wish comes true but it's not what you really wanted, after all.

I get it. I've learned my lesson. now please, genie/fairy/God, fix it. I want everyone to be okay again. I want them to not have to worry, or cry, or feel as helpless as I did. was that the lesson? I think it was. it's all I've learned, that you hurt everyone when you hurt yourself.

I've stopped, so now this has to. snap your fingers and make it go back to when there was trust and laughter and uncomplicated love.

last

you will not fall, you will float. out of the fog and into daylight, feeling warm and alive again, and not just for the blood pulsing down your fingers. you will feel. no more numbness. isn't that a comforting thought?

good. keep thinking it as you swim, up out of the cold. think of how close you are, to the last and the easiest thing you will ever do.

but it's too late!

the last train
will pull out of the station
five minutes before you set down your book
and consider meeting me
by then i'll be watching the country slip away from the back window-
a book in my hands?
identical to the one that you
picked back up
when you decided that I was bluffing
when I said I'd leave.
and I will be halfway across the state
when you finish the book
frown at the emptiness of our apartment
and pick up the phone

edgy

all of these songs about being close to the edge, those stories where you are getting close to the metaphorical "edge", looking over the "edge", afraid to fall over the "edge".

the edge of what? of your seat? of the stage you're on? of a cliff? I've been on all of these things, and the closer I got the better. it's exhilarating being on the edge, ready to fall or jump or run away because you can do it all.