Because February Looked Like This
My cat and weighing 7 and a half kilograms – ‘WHY THE FUCK DOES EVERYTHING IN THIS HOUSE END UP FAT?!’
Skinned my knees on my floor again. Why won’t my body just do what it’s meant to. Stay clean and unscathed. Match your metabolism. The slope of your waist makes me involuntarily moan.
Pharmacy counter. They probably think I’m in here for the morning after pill. That’s how early it is and how dirty I am right now.
I had a guy on the street offer a hug to me because he said I looked down. I would have said yes but I was almost 100% sure my dress had ridden up in my seat. He left looking down. I’m really sorry.
When I was fifteen, my knees constantly had marks on them, they looked like bruises. People would always ask what I had done and tell me how sore they looked. TRUTH : It was from kneeling in front of my mirror all night, every night.
Fixing flaws. Not fixed at all.
D is for delinquent.
When I would spend all my time in coffee shops by myself, ignoring pleas from friends. Writing and not once thinking of what I must look like, with my black coffee and cigarettes and notebook and streamlined pens [FAG]. Those were the hours I looked forward to. And yes, I did go to the library to research Art History. Because I did that in school and was top of my class. Not because I was looking into doing it at uni, like I told the guy that sat down next to me.
Think of something insane and write about it : Women sprouting vines from their fingertips.
The standards I keep are not standards often met. I had my mother on the phone rattling off ‘You can be picky’ while I’m curled into myself under second-hand duvets, the great unwashed. All the while I’m gazing at the muted television in front of my bed and thinking about who I fucked last night.
Something like my sister showing me her legs when I was thirteen. Something so dry-retch-inducing disturbing you scrape whatever you felt at the time to a place you literally cannot reach, yet the physical memory of the event still remains. But it’s not tangible. It’s like a photograph of a pained and posed situation with people you don’t know. How many memories do I have that have no emotional connections?
And why are people trying to tell me that’s a bad thing? Why would I want to remember and re-experience distress?
For once I fell for someone, not just the idea of how someone would be.