Spark

Posted: December 1, 2017 in Uncategorized

Other people’s wishes 

     spark

Old desires in me. 

Before I knew better.

Before I grew the hell up. 

Before I had every bit of softness in my ribcage poured full of concrete and

Encrypted. 
I like to bury the lessons I’ve learned

Under “what ifs” and “maybes”.

I’m just stubborn like that. 

Still willful to my rotten core.

There’s that fighting spirit;

The fire. 
But I never stopped to think that I was feeding it with what little humanity I had left. 

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Four Letters

Posted: November 29, 2017 in Uncategorized

There’s this thing about hope that I rather dislike: it leaves a great mess in the wake of its demise. If it went way quietly, all would be easier. 

Posted: November 2, 2017 in Uncategorized

When you’re near, my heart changes shape and function completely.

Just a constant thrumming like the wings of a hummingbird,

Like when you’re on a pacemaker, and your blood is a steady flow so you have no pulse. 

My thoughts aren’t any different, but my filter has become a screen door, halfway off its hinges, which squeaks open and slams shut with the passing hours.

Everything in my life is uncertain.

I feel like I’m always stuffing my panic in a too-small box marked “to deal with later”.

I feel like changing my lifestyle to pursue a new one is changing who I am. 

I feel like water in a washing machine during a spin dry. 

I feel like I’ve got four flat tires, a hemmhoraging radiator and oil leaks constantly running down my cheeks.

 I feel like a brand new spark plug when you are near. 

When you’re near, I am perfectly tightened hose clamps and buttercup yellow koni shocks right out of the box.

And a full roll cage.

Posted: September 1, 2017 in Uncategorized

I’m one hell of a woman when I love someone. 

Rarely otherwise.

Atriums and Arteries

Posted: August 27, 2017 in Uncategorized

You can’t fit a square peg in a round space

      unless you make it much smaller

Or round out those corners. 

But I have edges.

They demand to be heeded,

Accounted for, accommodated, accepted. 

I’ve been playdough in a keyhole too many times,

But now I am shaped and hardened;

Not unwilling to soften,

But picky about what I will contour to fit. 
I remember, I think I knew it wouldn’t last that time you spilled your pipe tobacco in your pants pocket; so absent, your mind. 

I think I knew when I saw you in that room seven, eight? Years ago. The weight of it; the sudden squeeze in my lungs. I knew you were important.

Just not that you would be the first in a long line of those I refused, finally refused to break for. 

Once, at my second high school, we did a weigh in (and also a hearing test and some other stuff). All the girls in my grade or class or whatever were in the room and that’s how I found out that I weighed more than a girl who had just had a baby. 

I used to count calories on post it notes at my third high school.

I used to eat celery and a blow pop for breakfast every morning on the 1/2 mile long walk to my bus stop at my first hs. 

I never made it to being skinny. Any time anyone says the word “diet” I panic because I wrote pages upon pages of numbers and goals and meal plans and food servings for years. I wrote descriptions of how it felt several days into eating maybe 700 calories. I wrote about days where I crashed and burned and wound up with a trash bin full of wrappers from individually packaged snacks. 

I love opening. The act of it, you know? It’s euphoric. Boxes, letters, snack cakes, candies. The fridge. The microwave. My closet. My dresser. Books. The convertible top. And I don’t like closing. I don’t like packing. I hate keeping myself off the scale, but it keeps me sane. I hate drowning out my ability to list calories. 

Every time someone suggests dieting, I hate having to shut it down. I know it’s a thing I need to do, and I know it’s not a thing people would expect me to have ever taken too far, but some people don’t lose weight when they have an eating disorder. Some people don’t lose weight on a healthy diet, and the frustration leads them down a dark rabbit hole of sleepless nights with empty bodies and then days where you eat dinner 3 times because two people “want to make sure you’ve eaten” because they’re worried about you. 

I know the best and worst foods to throw up. Still. Over a decade later. Comparing my body to other women as a form of shaming myself shakes my hand like an old friend. Smiling. 

This is what you’d look like if you tried harder. If you stopped eating carbs. If you hadn’t eaten your feelings after every. Single. Breakup.

The disgust with my body pulls my chair out at the table, pours me a glass of something strong and gives me a pep talk.

Your genes are bad. You have to overcompensate in order to even be normal. You have to do this every single day. For hours. You have to show your body that it can be better. Every time it was better, it took so. Much. Work. And that’s what you need to keep up. No time for anything else. 

My fear picks up a violin and screeches at me and calls it music. 

It killed your aunt; the bulimia, the anorexia. Her constant cycling between the two. You read her journal from treatment. And your only other option is to be a walking heart attack like your mother; you will be like her if you don’t run in that little hampster wheel. You already weigh more than half of what she does. So close. Your options are only these. Both will kill you. You’re going to die. The real question is: don’t you want to leave a pretty corpse? 

Untitled 5/20

Posted: May 20, 2017 in writing

I know I’m dead inside, but my life insurance provider says that doesn’t count and crematoriums don’t take walk-ins.

Dual

Posted: May 16, 2017 in writing

I am equal parts enthusiasm and wariness; 

Flame and ashes,

Bright and dark.

Don’t undermine my feelings,

Don’t reword my thoughts or experiences,

Don’t explain back to me what I just said,

Don’t tell me I’m irrational or that I’m not reacting properly or that I’m “a buzzkill” or that I’m lying or that I couldn’t possibly know something,

Don’t tell me my feelings are wrong or that I shouldn’t/can’t feel that way,

Don’t interrupt me,

Don’t hold my past against me and use it to claim I can’t/haven’t change/d because “you know me”,

And don’t try to tell me who I am/was/should be/ will be.

I’m not a project, I do not belong to you, I’m not a thing. Respect autonomy.

No Caskets, Please

Posted: January 18, 2017 in writing

‚ÄčI want to be cremated. Put me in a wasabi peas tin or some shit. I have a Hello Kitty lunch box… That would work, too. And don’t have a funeral; throw a fucking rager. Pot luck that bitch. Get shit faced. Play music. Be weird. 

I’m not trying to die or anything… But don’t put me in a fancy upholstered box in the cold ground. Just don’t. I’ve been alone in boxes feeling 6 feet under enough during my life.