Summer heat, zipper up to the throat. "Why are you wearing a jacket?" Because the air feels like judgment. Because I need to hold myself together. Because if I open up, everything spills. I am the therapist, the helper among all, I hold your trauma, I map your wounds, I give you the advice that saves you, While I rot in the quiet. I don’t get help. I am the helper. It’s easier to fix you than to feel me. I love food. I talk about it. It’s my joy, my comfort, my language. But when it hits my stomach, it’s a betrayal. I barely eat, or so I claim, Then I force it down, I force it down, And the world tilts. The acid rises. The throat constricts. I run to the bathroom, head over porcelain, And empty myself out.. A daily ritual of purgᵢng, of erasing. I am too much. I am too full. I am too there. "Delete that picture." Don’t capture me. Don’t picture me. In that frame, I am visible. I am flawed. I am real. I want to be a ghost, not a subject. "Show me your arms." I pull the sleeves down. I hide the lines, the scars, the history. I hide the razor b/ad3, cold and silver, Waiting for its turn. I hide the hunger, the starvatᵢon, The way I count calories like prayers, Trying to earn my existence. wrap the rubber band tight, a constricting ring against the pulse. Snap. The sound is dull, a muted thud against the bone. Snap. I count the seconds between beats. Snap. It’s a primitive alarm, a tactile prayer. Don’t cvt. Don’t b/33d. Don’t break. Just feel the sting, the red mark blooming, so I don’t have to draw the steel. So I don’t have to open the wound. So I can stay whole, if only for a moment, before the skin gives way. Perfection is the currency. Pressure is the air. I overwork, I overachieve, Just to be loved, just to be safe. The regret of failing someone is a stone in my gut, heavier than vomit, heavier than grief. 3 AM. The house is dead. Except for the drumming in my ears. I am an overthinker, Staring at the ceiling, counting seconds, Calculating the weight of every breath. Staying up late because the night is safe, Because the day is a threat. Because tomorrow brings the school, the eyes, the noise. Brother’s laugh, sharp as glass. That specific parents’ fight, the silence that followed. Even after they apologized to one another. Losing a person dear to me, The regret of failing them, Begging my parents to stay home, Begging my mind to stay quiet, Begging the world to be still. I cut my hair by myself. Scissors and fear, watching it fall. A ritual of shedding, of changing, Of trying to become someone else, Someone easier to love. Changing my entire personality to fit in, Like a chameleon in a room of mirrors, Forgetting who I really am. Questioning who and what I like, Questioning my soul. Falling in love with the person I can’t have, Knowing it’s a tragedy before it begins. Drowning my sorrow in caffeine, Black and bitter, a liquid wire Holding my eyelids up. Having a depressive disorder. Not a diagnosis, but a weather system. A constant fog, a heavy rain. Sleeping your pain away, But even sleep is a battle, Insomnia is the tax I pay for existing. I am alone, but I am terrified of being alone. I cope through others, so solitude drives me insane. I am full, but I am starving. I am here, but I am already gone. Purging. Hiding. Cvttᵢng. Starvᵢng. Being perfect. Being broken. Being nothing.
been writing a lot of these, haven't I?
