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My reflection feels like a stranger who keeps asking for things I can’t give.
I know what it says when I look at my thighs, at my collarbones pressing sharp against my skin, at the way my face looks smaller now, prettier somehow, like the bones are trying to break through. But it’s not enough. I suck in my stomach, tilt my chin. It’s never enough.
Men like him are wallpaper, always there, always leering, always thinking they have a right to the space I take up.
“He’s hot,” she says, her voice low, bored. “But he looks like he’ll ruin your life.”
with the way the internet decided my grief was just pretty enough to turn into currency.
I’ll be the bitch who broke his heart but at least they’ll be talking about me.
“Because the man in my mouth told me to.”
We all rot eventually. We all fall apart. Why should I feel bad about trading blood for glory?
