i inhaled deeply, my legs curled under me as we sat against the windowsill. a gentle early september breeze swam through, my eyes half closed- partially to avoid the smoke getting in them and irritating my contacts.

“come onnn,” i drawled out. “say one nice thing about me. i fucking dare you.”

you smiled at me and i felt my heart leap around in my sternum. “i already have.”

“what? when? was i asleep or something?”

“like, a few weeks ago. remember that thing i said about your boobs?”

i shoved you, mostly playful, against the shaky concrete. you tossed your hands up in faux surrender. “that was not a compliment. asking ‘when are your boobs gonna grow in’? that’s straight up rude. i said something nice, jackass.”

“no, no, it’s a nice thing. look. it gives me a lot of admiration for you. the rest of you grew, but your boobs didn’t. they’re seriously committed to staying that size and i respect that. you embrace it, too, which makes it even more badass. it’s like… someone forgot to water them and give them 5 hours of sunlight every day.”

we laughed, and i passed you the cigarette, now wearing thin. my shirt sleeve rode up a bit and you saw- you saw the inside of my arm, a disgusting portrait of crimson and healed over white, like hollyhock left to rot in the yard. weeds, swarming ugly underneath my clothes. i tugged on my sleeve and looked out the window, hoping that ignoring the problem would make it go away.

this has been my strategy my whole life. it’s why my parents despise me, it’s why my romantic relationships always crash and burn. i didn’t even know why i still did that to myself. pure habit, maybe. warmth and comfort in the familiar. it has been a lengthy addiction, something i have been doing for 10 years now. it’s stupid and embarrassing. no one ever came to save me, not once in those years. only i can cure myself, and i often worry that the poison is too deeply rooted in my veins, unable to be threaded out.