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?