Vi know it looks like i'mV6 years ago in Scraps More Like This
s h o u l d e r s f o r e a r m s f e m u r s c a l v e s a l l l o o s e
from one another
like cylindrical beads on too-long string, like that bracelet i made you when we were three.
but these tendons are stretched and my bones are spaced out
only from holding on
'cause i can't give up on holding on to stop myself from
know i'm ontheedge
don't-you-dare-marymy life has been filled with smile-like-this 's and don't-you-dare-mary 's. and i always smiled-like-this with my eyes crinkled and my cheeks aching from tugging my lips away from my teeth; and i never-did-dare-mary because i didn't know what would happen if i did dare...and i guess i didn't feel i needed to find out.don't-you-dare-mary7 years ago in Scraps More Like This
my mother cut my bangs high above my eyelashes when i was five. devastated, of course, i sobbed the entire way to the studio that i was going to get my picture "professionally taken, mary, it's a big deal." my mother peppered my ears the entire ride there with you've-got-a-pretty-face-now-we-can-see-it 's and sandy-haired-girls-are-adorable-with-shorter-bangs 's. the photographer wafted over my head with sit-like-that 's and smile-like-this 's. i didn't even pause to think about it; i crinkled my eyes and hurt my cheeks as i tugged my lips from my teeth.
when i was eleven, my mother embarrassed me at the mall. i wandered away from her and the unfortunate shirts she pulled
psycho-somatic illnessevery day i feel empty, like the car i found that had slid down a mountain, with the tree branches punched through the windows. it had been there for years and it never filled up, was always an echoing silence up there among the stoically mourning trees.psycho-somatic illness6 years ago in Scraps More Like This
my heart beats in my chest like a kick drum, cold and clanging and half-eaten with rust. my lungs are on either side like a pair of broken pigeon wings, blackened from smoking and just not giving a shit. my organs probably hate me like everyone else, and that's okay because they don't have to put up with me for much longer.
i write letters to myself, but they never turn out very well, or i forget to send them, or i just plain can't remember what i was trying to say.
if i were you, i'd stop crying in public bathrooms, and then coming out with reddened eyes and saying that your contacts were bothering you.
i don't want these memories. i never want to have another thought again. the bitter is so bitter i'll give up the swe