When will you stop martyring yourself?
Maybe it's because if you do it to yourself, you don't have to accept that you just aren't being loved by another person. You say it's enough because you're addicted to chronic disappointment. Outside of the very few exceptions, you think that this is what love looks like, the gut-wrenching, bitter starvation. ( Read more... )

You purge, really purge, for the first time in this apartment. This place where you live with your husband. It feels so horribly wrong, like you have desantified this home. You're disgusting and ashamed. You don't think that you'll never purge again, but maybe you won't purge here. But it's been so long, you've forgotten how. You make loud, ugly ( Read more... )

You still read her old journals online. She hasn't updated since before your last desperate fight, but you want to hear her words still. Four years, and you think about her almost every day. She was a creature, but she was your creature, and you would do almost anything to see her again. You would get her address from a friend and send her roses on ( Read more... )

You create because ( Read more... )

You
have a passion
for turning yourself
inside out
Reversable
like a raincoat
Half peachy pale
Half red
You put yourself on
every morning
button your buttons
go to work
But every night
you take yourself off
so uncomfortable
hung on a hook on the back of your bathroom door
because you
are always too big
for yourself.

This is not ugly. Not yet ( Read more... )

There are spiders in my skull, and I can feel the madness in my bones ( Read more... )

She closes her eyes, face somehow both empty and pained at the same time. I take the moment to lean in. Her hair may be falling out, but her eyelashes are still dark at the edges of her trembling lids. My vision unfocuses, and they make up the body of the butterflies resting there. Drawn like a short sweep of charcoal, dividing the shadows on her ( Read more... )