untitled ?

i met a girl who hates herself. she smiles so earnestly, and made us laugh so hard. her leg trembles at the dinner table, but you don’t realise it. i once caught her unmasked, frowning at the reflection looking back at her. but she disappeared so quickly, and the laughing girl came back. you don’t care as much if they smile while hating themselves. it’s easier to swallow. harder to believe. i met a girl who hates herself, and all i saw was grinning teeth and dance moves.

your name gets caught in my throat. it’s stuck there, refusing to leave. i once described it as my favourite word to say. and it seems as though the body doesn’t know what the brain does; that you and i divided, broke, fractured into incompatible jigsaw pieces. the brain stops looking for you, but the eyes don’t. the brain stops reaching for you but the hands don’t. i call others your name, too. it’s caught in my throat.

and it’s not even a tsunami, or a roaring hurricane. it’s the tide i’ve been running from, the crushing gentleness of it all. perhaps if it were a tsunami i could be okay with giving up; how pathetic to drown under a wave others swim in. but i want to feel loved, so i convince myself the drowning is okay. i want to feel loved so i make eyes at the scissors. i want to feel loved so i don’t move from my desk, don’t sleep in my bed, don’t look in the mirror. i want feel loved so i

in your brother / i saw a boy / who i love

what are the nightmares about? he asks. you think for a moment. betrayal, you finally admit. the weight of a mind you cannot ever explain, not in a way he would understand. the warped perception you have of the relationships; like looking into a fun house mirror, with a manipulated image staring back at you. the nightmares are about your maths teacher, you whisper. and your grandpa with no shared blood. the man on the street with a bald head, and the body that doesn’t belong to you. they’re about drowning in a place that no one can hear, and the children you don’t have. you are scared to close your eyes at night, but he won’t ever understand, so he can’t help you.

no, no. it’s because i speak, here, about him in the third person. he doesn’t know. whereas i would always talk to you directly. i would address you specifically; it’s natural, easy, comfortable. i know you do. that’s how it works. that’s why i shouldn’t. that’s how i know.

it’s not insurmountable; curiosity amongst the self-centred conversations. it’s not impossible; the thought of his hand in mine makes me smile. it’s not unlikely; comments from others, prying about the relationship we don’t yet have. but it’s not what i want - i want to be loved, but i don’t want to be loved by him.