"Yeah, how are you? Good?"
Heavy breathing and your lips are silent and the air feels muggy. I feel anxious as I stare at your face so I look down at your shoes and make a statement about how your shoes are Dr. Martens.
"They are great shoes, last forever!"
Yeah I know, don’t got to tell me. Why am I talking to you? I’m uncomfortable…I think. I don’t know. Why do you come to my mind as my closest friend? Why are so significant?
We talk and talk and you somehow feel comfortable around me. I feel anxious again. It burns my throat and I’m afraid to call you my friend. I don’t know who are my friends.
I vomit and vomit and maybe I’m sad. Hell yeah I am. Is it obvious? I hope not. She said I became a whole other person that night, with all the vomit and the crying. What do you think? Probably, pathetic, with spite biting at your lips and mocking voices held in the back of your throat.
Yeah, yeah, I was another person. The person that clamps down on my throat and stops me from staring anyone solidly in the eyes. The person who tell me to stick my fingers in the back of my throat and holds a knife against my thinner thighs as I squeeze the fat. Yeah, another person I refuse to acknowledge because if I do then it’ll be something tangible and real.
Isn’t that scary? It is to me. Is that silly? Is to me. So let me vomit, when sober or not, because at night I don’t feel sober anyway. It’s normal, but usually no one sees it, so don’t see it. Look away because this night time creature isn’t me, its another person. Don’t pity it because it isn’t something to even be acknowledged. Just lull it back to sleep so it’ll fall into a slumber and let me be welcomed back into my reality.
"I’m good!" Of course, of course. During day I’m good and nothing else. So ignore me.
Who do we talk about when we write “he” and “she” in the anonymous papers that we type up with anxiety wrapping our hands and hearts, that makes our vision blur and sight of everyday life skew?
Are the he and she’s someone in particular? Do we think of who we are truly writing about? Rather we wander the world in our inarticulate minds, corrupting the imagine of civilians we stand next to with shuffling feet in overpriced brand shoes with clammy palms that wet the inside of our jacket’s pockets.
He and She are me, as well as those other strangers who glance at me or ask if they could borrow a pen. But they don’t matter. Sorry—sorry for my lethargic and literal attitude. But not really, I hardly have enough empathy to care even care about the woeful sorries I owe the world.
When people say “Treat other as you’d like to be treated,” they don’t hear the error in their own ignorant throats. I don’t want to be treated well. I want to be stabbed at school. I want people to ignore my anxiety and ignore my regrets. When I cry don’t approach me, don’t ask if I’m alright. No one should see me cry. I want to left to my own sadness so I can figure out myself without the need of others. But that doesn’t mean I’m unhappy.
If I were to treat those strangers with the contempt I feel for myself I’d be the story of a person who didn’t care enough about anyone. Rather shouldn’t those people who believe they are poetic say “Treat others with politeness and kindness that every individual deserves?” So grow up and be kind, be moral. The Shes and Hes of the world don’t care enough for each other, so at least learn to be polite.
Chem POV, 1st person
Sorry for any ooc-ness. I kind of got carried away.
If people say I’m doing better; I’m improving; I’m a good person. If that’s what they say then they don’t fucking know. They don’t know what I do.
I don’t need the empathy nor the romanticizing of what I am. I know what I am. I am a disease. I don’t need Them to tell me that I’m sick and hopeless because I know it.
I’m full of despair that crawls with gnawing teeth into my chest. My vibrant pink hair grays at 2:30 am and when I brush my young fingers through the locks they shrivel, turning every phalange prominent as if I am made of protruding knuckles. I feel tired and as I set my hand on the tile counter it seems to sound like an echoing clap.
I’m tired and I can’t decide whether to continue to stare outside to the stars or to go out and let the cold air burn my throat as I try to experience and feel.
I think but I don’t do. I dream of it and sometimes taste it when I kiss his cheek. I also sometimes feel it when he wraps his lanky arms around my waist and I want to be pulled in, swallowed whole. I want to be engulfed by his love and feel every part of him. I want him to rip me apart and tell me he loves me. He’ll consume me and drive me mad. I’ll shiver as he loves me softly, passionately, coldly. I carve his name into my tongue so I can taste and speak and breath with him. I will die only once I am a part of him. I will die with his love even when his teeth clamped around my throat.
So I don’t cling to tightly to my precious SC. I know of the poison because while he fills me with bliss, he is not the only experience I will savor. I must savor more. SC is a love, but he isn’t love. He is what makes me love but he won’t define my love. I will find my own ways to happiness and not let him as a being be my happiness.
Nothing shall define me; not my disease, not Them, not SC nor my grief. I know of my flaws and I do not deny them. I am still to be written and burned into the world.
every time i want to write im on the ipad groans
you always want to kiss him when you hold the back of his neck. you can feel his head turn and shoulders tense as the lips meet and adjust into a fitting lock. his hair brushes over your nails when you curl your fingers into the locks. warmth invades your tongue and teeth and when you pull back the warmth mingles in the air. you clench your fingers to feel him and him in his infinity and already the infinity has passed leaving your fingers and lips and tongue and teeth craving for more.