eating disorders are not romantic.
self-harm is not artistic.
and crying yourself to sleep is not sentimental.
bleeding on a page won't sew my heart back on my sleeve.
the untouched food is not symbolic
and you can't eat enough pages of the bible to coat your stomach.
the toilet bowl is cold and unforgiving.
i could write about tracing my collarbones with my fingertips
and i could write about how the mirror will always look with dagger eyes
and i could write about how i'll fuck you no matter what you say to me.
"but i no longer need you to fuck me as hard as i hated myself."
the words don't make the medication go down any easier.
i still have a hard time swallowing because of march
and no matter what font i type the letters in,
the emptiness is not beautiful.
don't tell me it's beautiful when my chest doesn't work right.
i just want to write about blue birds and yellow skies.
here's to living.
i wish i could hear you yell this.
ReplyDeleteand i could write about how i'll fuck you no matter what you say to me.
ReplyDelete"but i no longer need you to fuck me as hard as i hated myself."
this hit me so hard and i felt it so much that i couldn't continue to read the rest of the piece for a couple minutes.
i've read this so many times. and every time i read it i feel something different.
ReplyDelete"bleeding on a page won't sew my heart back on my sleeve."
very bitter, very true.