sun bruised ☀

You know what’s probably going to be shitty but super popular? A movie about anthropomorphic foods who are terrified of being eaten. 

So this is the bleak and boring aftermath. These are the years following disorder and tears and anger; treatment and fear and resentment this is the silence that fills the air after a storm. I am neither eating disordered nor in recovery. I am neither sick nor dying. I no longer want to drag my baggage around by the hand, introducing him like an old lover at every party. I no longer want to hide her in my closet, stuffing her bones into places she will never fit, complaining of her excess. so here I am. And this is the aftermath.

The end of twenty-two was supposed to be goodbye and this was supposed to be  a love poem. This was supposed to be a sweet song about you and I, about the love we share how it never quite worked but we’re still friends (that lie tastes bitter even as I’m writing it). This was supposed to be a letter to you about how I no longer hated you, how I forgave you for making me crazy for making me sick for making me into someone I’m not someone I never was but it’s coming out in sharper bits and pieces crushed in open hands accusatory slurs and pointed fingers. But that’s just us, isn’t it? And we’re getting a little old for these games.

…and you drink a little too much and try a little too hard. And you go home to a cold bed and think, ‘That was fine’. And your life is a long line of fine.