#day1620

all night long i hope you will stake your need for me into my heart with a rusted knife. tear me up, baby. i can handle it. do you cry my name in the dark like i do yours?

while i can’t have you, i long for you. i would miss my plane to meet you for coffee. i’d take an uber across town at rush hour to see you for 10 minutes. i’d wait outside all night in the storm if i thought you might open your door for me in the morning. i’d let you feed on the dark parts of my brain- the ones that wail, the ones that run away, the ones that do not want to be touched. i don’t like to be touched, it’s true, but it’s a strange dislike. i don’t like to be touched because i crave it too much. i want to be held very tight so i will not break into pieces on your kitchen floor. don’t sweep me up and throw me out, please.

and i found photographs of our school, on the day we met- i thought that you were so beautiful. it was love, i guess.

the worst part wasn’t the rapes themselves. no. the worst, most nauseating part about all this, was the fact that it felt like no one believed me. my story wasn’t enough evidence. i’d never felt more alone. and i’d never felt so much nothing. at the end of the day, i was a scared little girl with nowhere to go, nothing to eat. i felt like i had to apologize for inconveniencing everyone by experiencing my own trauma.

and here’s what always happens- i’ll be blunt. no flowery imagery this time, no silky smooth prose. i meet someone. or reconnect with them, the distance palpable but not a complete deterrent. they adore the things i say about them. they don’t like me or care for me, but they do love my attention, the words i reserve only for them. they let me believe they actually want me.

something shifts later, something changes. they get bored. they get desensitized to my words, my affection. they find someone better. someone prettier, skinnier, more easily accessible. they prefer someone with less baggage. someone easier to be with. they abandon me on the street, whining like a dog.

later: whether it’s weeks or months or years. they almost always reappear and come back. they realized how much they missed my words, my sweet constant compliments. they still don’t think i’m very pretty but whatever, i’m forgiving, and the cycle repeats. being a writer is a curse and a blessing. i am a cracked object, band aids and gauze covering the whole of my stupid freckled skin.

i want to give up. just stop. but i can’t. i am a lover girl at heart, i’d rather be used like this than never feel intensely again.

i’ll lay on the floor.

touch me till i vomit.

you have my permission to not love me. i am a lowly cathedral of dead bolts, and i’d rather burn myself down than change the locks.

i stared at the wall, at a half dead fly trying to escape my room, desperately attempting to open the window. i watched its wings fall off and i stared until the doctor came in, banging the door open, causing the fly to stumble to the ground dead. my eyes moved slowly. they upped my dose; everything around me had blurred edges.

“mind if i take a look?”

i said nothing, but i outstretched my arms and legs to him, the gauze lazy and half hearted. the doctor hummed. “i need to see underneath. make sure there’s no infection.”

i didn’t move. the doctor tentatively came over and undid the bandages, and i imagined my mother crying again. i winced at the aching soreness. “am i gonna live?”

the doctor smiled, thinly. “yes. no infection. i’ll make sure it all gets cleaned up good, though.”

i rubbed my arms where they stung. i hated the concept of that- of getting cleaned up. i felt unworthy of my sin being washed away. better treatment than i’d ever deserve.

“you eating all the meals we’re giving? your weigh ins aren’t showing any progress.”

“you can leave now.”

“i’ll take that as a no.”

i waited too long for you. years and years. i will devour you, love you into flame and ash. from the base of your neck to the arch of your eyelids, your beauty makes a slave of me. i want to eat you alive. i hope you want to devour me just as badly. it’s in every look, every message, every laugh, every smile, every scratchy pen mark in my notebook when i should be doing work. all of my devotion turns violent, in the end- normally i’m the one getting knifed.

i’m sorry i’m such a stupid crybaby. i’ve gone years without anyone that has cared about me and meant their words. i’m sorry. i’m scared you’ll leave me. i am nothing at all aside from mousy and a creature with frizzy hair. maybe i’m nothing at all. just a crack where some low light slipped through. i sit on the cathedral steps and weep, your touch still fresh on my skin. i am spitting up blood and screaming. do you feel nothing? silence. do you feel nothing? silence.

i am horrible at being bulimic, you know. i hate the feeling of throwing up. i hate the rush, the fact that my body is rejecting something so vehemently. i hate the pressure in my abdomen. can’t stand the acidity. if i wanted pain like that, i’d just grab my box cutter. it’s quicker and sharper and warmer.

i’d only ever managed to vomit on purpose a couple of times. sure, drinking enough will get me there, hunched over the toilet while my friends laugh in the living room. in high school, though, i did it, and i’d always feel queasy for days after, my grades suffering more than they already did. i was bad at it, and i still am. fingers go down my throat but i can never cross the finish line.

instead i just eat as little as possible, try to consume fiber, and workout so much my legs develop shin splints that don’t go away. much healthier. obviously. the most validating thing, weirdly enough, is bruises. i won’t be happy with my weight until i’m covered in bruises just from existing.

one second.

i felt sick.

i sat at my desk, nausea creeping up on me like a slow moving tide. it wasn’t like i was actually sick. just a little nauseous. a bit shaky, sort of dizzy, especially if i stood up too fast.

i was distracted at work, too, the endless notes i had to put in seeming less important by the second. i wanted to go home and just starve myself in peace, not have to use my brain. it was how i wanted to deal with how out of control i felt. i can control one thing- food. the brain fog from lack of said food, though- dealing with that is always the trick.

“my last supervisor at my old job said eating disorders are one of the hardest things to treat,” my boss said during morning meeting today. “because food is just always there. the thoughts never go away.”

i nodded from my desk, pretending to write notes about a client i’d seen the previous day. i wanted to scream, “you have no fucking idea!”

and of course, the thought of him made me sick. he leaves a foul taste in my mouth. the same taste, i suspect, i leave in yours. i often remember how disgusting i am and feel unworthy of food. his knuckles bruising my soft skin, like i was an apple no one wanted. maybe that’s still true. i was pristine, once, but he ruined me, then i went ahead and ruined myself. i’ll never be wanted and brand new again. good news is, i’m not actually produce. i’m not a dog, either- i’m a flesh and blood girl, with birthmarks and freckles and crooked teeth and bony knees. still. the metaphor stands. i try to be so good but in the end i’m a damaged little thing no one wants to deal with.