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I like my callouses, like the way they make my hands look. The only downside is it’s hard not to chew them. Every once in a while I get the urge to let my teeth sink down into them.
Her parents were over, and the three of them cooked a huge homemade dinner together, laughing in the kitchen. I barely made it through eating and had to hide in the bathroom immediately afterwards. I’m jealous of their happiness, that they loved her unrestricted, no price to pay for their kindness.
I am not wanted. I’m a warm body with laughably low self esteem.
I think most people assume the reason why I avoid my reflections is because I don’t want to look at my chest, but that never really bothered me. At least not until it changed how other people saw me.
I’ve stopped reaching out first to anyone who isn’t in Cluster Headache. It took almost no time for people I thought I was close with to fade out of my life all together.
If he would let me, I’d crack open his chest, part his ribs so I could climb in, chew his arteries up and rearrange them into a nest for myself. I would crawl under his skin, a warm blanket for me while I burrow into his muscles. I’d hide behind his molars, or the crevice of his eye. Every gentle touch he affords me tonight reminds me that I’m hungry. Starving for so much I will never have. I settle for scraps thrown to the floor, picking bones clean.
At some point I went from surviving to just floating between my days like a ghost, my energy and executive function nowhere to be found. I’ll get around to organizing that bookshelf, I’ll get around to putting those boxes away, I’ll get around to it, I swear. Thinking about it makes me feel unwell.
It’s not my fault my childhood was garbage, or that my brain is wrong, or that I never learned how to be a good person.
I don’t know how other people maintain functional relationships. I can’t stop myself from questioning motives.
Who are you really mad at? I’m mad at everyone, and especially mad at myself.
I’ve got to know how deep the rot goes. If I’m salvageable at all.
The common factor in everyone who has been cruel to me, is me after all.
Even though there’s nothing wrong with it, it feels like there is. My apartment is disgusting because I am a slob, which means my microwave is contaminated, which means this food is contaminated.
Maybe if they have to pick up my entrails off the floor, they’ll feel bad for me, I’ll get a couple weeks of sympathy from my band before their anger inevitably returns.
