Eyesore

 

There is such an ugly thing in the reflection.

     Stares at me with hollow eyes and sunken cheekbones.  She is departed, cold, and so very hollow.  Like a colorless painting.  A painting that has the potential to be a work of art, but is instead a whisper of what could be, a ruined version of what should be. 

    My vision of perfection is cruel, and I have played the fool all along.  The expectations of my daydreams bury me.  Why, oh why, do I do this to myself? 

     How did I go so wrong in life?

Monsters

I wish I could go back and tell little me,

A big kid is not something you want to be.

The monsters that used to live under your bed,

Have moved, and now live inside your head. 

The monsters tell you you're not good enough,

The monsters are what force you to starve and cut.

But the biggest difference between the two,

Is the ones in your head can actually hurt you. 

Hell is Empty

It's in this moment, when I am alone in the quiet, that I truly hate myself.  I wish I could wash my hands of myself.

     William Shakespeare once said that hell is empty, and all the devils are here.  He was right.  The devils are here indeed. 

     And they're coming for me. 

Sadness Is Like A Drug

 

 

I hate to be touched.

     People come up behind me, I feel their shadow cast over me, and they place a pitying hand on my cold shoulder.  They feel sorry for me.

     They look at me as if I am a spectacle, waiting for me to explode and finally let go of all the secrets I hold dear. 

     But they don't understand that pity is not what I seek.  I don't want their sympathy, their soft words, or their forced smiles. 

     I want to be left alone.  I want them to realize I am beyond repair.  They have waited too long, and now the damage is done.

     There was a time when I wanted help, when I craved attention, but that time is long gone, and I hardly remember it. 

     Now they have lost their chance.  I have made up my mind now, and I have decided I want to be alone.  I will not let them make a mockery of my pain, I will not let them watch as I struggle.

     A long time ago, I needed them, and they were nowhere to be found.  They left me by myself for years, believing I was safe at home, but I went through hell whenever I was left alone. 

     And they did not notice. 

     I am an excellent liar.  

     But lies leave so many scars, so many traces of their destruction. 

     Everyone think I am a weak, pathetic girl.  They believe I am narcissistic and unfeeling.  They believe I do not have emotions outside of my own vanity.  But that's not true. 

     They think I am weak because I sold my soul to a disease and fell down a hole that is too steep to dream of escape. 

     Can't they realize my strength? How much it's taken to make so little of myself?

     They think my fixed eyes are hollow because I am too self-centered to live in the real world, to be present, to laugh at jokes and play in the rain. 

     But that's all lies.

     My thoughts, my real thoughts, couldn't be more different.  I don't deserve to live in the real world, and dreaming of belonging there is too painful. 

     I want, more than anything, to laugh in the rain, to finally take in the world I find so hard.  I want to be a child again.  Childhood would be a welcomed release.

     I could be innocent, delicate, and untouched.  I could be free, I could live in a world where food is not greed and razor blades are scary and direful.  I could finally be free.

    

     Stop that, Rosie.  That is not your life anymore, darling. 

 

     The truth is, I hardly remember that world.  I tried, for a very long time, to remember the euphoric feeling of joy and happiness and weightlessness, but that time has passed for me.  That's not my life anymore, because sadness is like a drug that steals your world and hands you back an unrecognizable reality that is cruel and sordid but is also like your old life in some manner. 

     The weather is the same, your family is the same, your home is the same.

     But somehow, you are different.  So very different.

     From there, it feeds you lies through a series of tricks and ploys that build and build until one day, the reality you knew implodes and collapses on itself, shattering to ruins right before your eyes, while you wait and cry and scream for help, thinking certainly this is all some kind of bad dream.

     It's not.  From now on, this is your world.  You will never wake up. 

This Empty Girl

 

Rosie, it's time to tell you the truth. 

     You've been in the dark long enough, so long that you have become colorblind, seeing in coffee black and egg white.  You haven't seen the sun in years, darling, and it's time you know the real reason why. 

     I am sparing the world of your face. 

     I have made your bed at the bottom of the blackest hole to save the ones you love from the failure you have become.  You know not the ways in which you have disappointed everyone. 

     But now, it's time you know. 

     You are not pretty, and you are not bright.  In fact, you are ugly and so very ordinary.  You are nothing, Rosie.  You are the skin of the girl you could be if only you had control, if only you would listen to me when I speak. 

     I am trying to help you, you stupid girl.  I am trying to make you worthy.  If you would do as you're told, I could make you beautiful, wanted, loved.  I could give you friends.

     Don't try and pretend as if they is not what you have always dreamed of.  There is nothing you want more, darling.  I understand that, I understand your longing perfectly. 

     But you must stop this.  All of this eating, this disgusting eating, must stop this instant.  You must get off this roller coaster and forgo this false sense of security.  Eating does nothing but upset you, darling.  So why do you continue to torture yourself?

     Listen to me, Rosie.  Listen very carefully. 

     You must resist the food.  You must be strong.  No matter how knotted your stomach may become, no matter how dizzy you get, and no matter how many times you tell yourself  one bite won't hurt, you must not eat. 

     For what nourishes you will also destroy you. 

     You are too young to be this empty girl. 

     But fear not, darling.  Soon, you will find perfection. 

Every Way That Matters

 

I am so close, so tangibly close, to the person I want to be. 

     I am so close to  her, yet she is never within my reach.  It's as if everytime I overcome a hurdle in my haste to find her, she builds another one, only this time, one that is ten times stronger.  It is as if I'm not supposed to be happy. 

     But I don't want to give up yet; I have not reached the end, although I'm not entirely sure what the end really looks like for me. 

     Is it death?  When I have finally pushed my body to the edge of the cliff, after years of starvation and purging and exhaustion?  Or is it when I finally swallow all those tiny white pills in that little orange container that are oh so tempting. 

     When will I finally realize that I have had enough of this life that is not a life but is a shell of what life should be.  I am not living; I am a ghost with a beating heart.

     I am alone in every way that matters.  And there is no happy ending in sight. 

     So until my ending comes, until I am put out of my misery, I will continue on with my terrible sickness.  In fact, I will care for it more and more from now on, more so than I ever have, because right now, I need it the most.  I need to feel something, anything. 

     I am a numb corpse, alive yet unable to breathe.  My body lives in the daylight while my souls sleeps in the dark.  I am starving in many more ways than one. 

     I want to feel again.  Feel anything.  Anything at all. 

     Which is why I won't eat today.  Because that way, I can be in both physical and emotional pain, and no one will even slightly notice, because to them, the truth I know, the truth I hold so dear, is all lies to them.  They don't believe I am capable of this. 

     But they don't know me.  I could shock them with the things I have done, the things I have seen in my life.  They no not the ways in which I have changed, and I would rather they remember the me I used to be than the me I have become.  Because the Rosie I am now is a train wreck; destructive and violent, depressing and heartbreaking, unstoppable and unfixable. 

     The damage has been done to me, and there is no going back.

     So I will kill the me within, and spare the world the gory details.  I will be heroically sick.  Heroically silent, never bothering a single soul.  

     They will never know the depths of my heart, and I will take these secrets with me to my grave. 

    

Blueberry And Chocolate Chip Pancakes

Valentine's Day is a dreadful day.

     Some say it's just another Thursday, but that is a rotten lie.  Valentine's Day is 24 hours of reverberations of love and affection and enchantment, unless, of course, you are unwanted, unlovable, untouchable.  Then, yes, this day can be particularly unpleasant. 

     I feel as though I am that one cream-filled chocolate in those little heart shaped boxes, the one that everyone hates, the ones with the revolting orange goop inside, like the kind of surprise you wish you could wrap back up and forget you opened. 

     I am that girl.  The one everyone wishes they could wash their hands of. 

     People see me, speak to me, fill me with a sense of hope, and then stomp on my stupid dream of being wanted.  They throw me back in the heart shaped box as if I am nothing. 

     I have been treated so long, and I have been treated so wrong. 

     I know not what it would feel like to be held, to be someones sun and sky, to be cherished. 

     I am so tired of people decided when I am allowed to be their friend.  I am convenient.  I am always available.  I jump at the thought of being wanted. 

     And they so shamelessly take advantage of me. 

     Not for long.

     I will no longer be a toy that is only chosen when everyone else is taken.  I will not be anyone's last resort.  I am sick of being the doll everyone drags around when they need a friend and then toss to the side when I am no longer new and beautiful.

     Is it so wrong to want someone to love me?  Is it so bad to want blueberry and chocolate chip pancakes?

     I am so easily forgotten.  So easily overlooked. 

     I don't want to be that girl anymore. 

     I want to be beautiful, and I don't care if it hurts; I want control. 

     I want to be the one who can say, "No, I don't feel like being used."  I want to be a stoic, unfeeling mannequin that is gracefully beautiful and alarmingly alluring, yet untouchable and phlegmatic. 

     I want to be the one with the power; not the one who's emotions are so readily toyed with. 

     But that will never happen.  I value affection, even affection that is intangible and masochistic, too much to let even a moment of it slip through my fingers. 

     Is it better to be used than forgotten entirely, if the truth is that no even cared to know you at all?

     Their attention, their sweet words, their tender sentiment.... is it all lies?