Cold
The coldness penetrated my skin, and sunk in to the bone. Nothing would warm me up. Fuzzy blankets, silky sheets and a soft comforter did nothing but add texture. Small goosebumps popped up on my arms and legs and I could feel my scalp tingling. I curled up my legs and pulled my arms over them, I could feel my knees pressing together, creating bruises on each other.
I ducked my head under the covers, too, and let my smooth hair fall onto my shoulders and tickle my back. Tears pricked my eyes and my breath became uneven. I swallowed back the sadness that was rushing up my throat, threatening to destroy everything-- trying to take my control back from me. But with the strength of my refusal, the tears stopped and the breakdown crawled back, however unwillingly, into it's own corner in my mind.
My eyes found my thighs, pressed together, the fat squashed and disgusting. I grabbed a handful of fat from my inner thigh. Your a worthless piece of crap she told me, You mean absolutely nothing. You have to get rid of that. I laid there, distracted by the mounds of fat on my body, pinching and grabbing all of it seperatley until there was no more of my body that I could critique.
The coldness came back. I found myself shivering, curling up, desperately trying to warm myself. But it wouldn't go away. The cold wouldn't leave me, it haunted me, it kept me awake. It was a reminder of everything that I would never be, and everything that I longed for so much.
My ears were sharp, picking up every sound in the house; but the only sound I really wanted to hear was the phone ringing. It never did, and I convinced myself that it never would, that he didn't love me. After all, who could love me? Who could love a disaster? No, he didn't love me. He couldn't. No one loved me. I don't love me.
I placed my hands, spread out, onto my stomach, trying to find some sort of heat. It did nothing except make my stomach even colder.
The TV in the background was talking about politics, the ever-famous upcoming election. What is this world coming to? I think to myself. It's funny, the way everyone has their own, personal problems, and the world has it's problems that everyone shares. Problems. That is what defines life, problems and the solutions that never seem to fit the way we would like them to.
I am far too cold, extremely cold. I pull my body together even closer and rock back and forth, trying to escape my mind. Open the door in my head, walk out, lock the door and throw away the key. What happiness that would bring. Then things would be perfect, truly perfect. Not the distorted, emaciated, scarred image of perfection that is stained on my thoughts, like blood on a white sheet.
I ducked my head under the covers, too, and let my smooth hair fall onto my shoulders and tickle my back. Tears pricked my eyes and my breath became uneven. I swallowed back the sadness that was rushing up my throat, threatening to destroy everything-- trying to take my control back from me. But with the strength of my refusal, the tears stopped and the breakdown crawled back, however unwillingly, into it's own corner in my mind.
My eyes found my thighs, pressed together, the fat squashed and disgusting. I grabbed a handful of fat from my inner thigh. Your a worthless piece of crap she told me, You mean absolutely nothing. You have to get rid of that. I laid there, distracted by the mounds of fat on my body, pinching and grabbing all of it seperatley until there was no more of my body that I could critique.
The coldness came back. I found myself shivering, curling up, desperately trying to warm myself. But it wouldn't go away. The cold wouldn't leave me, it haunted me, it kept me awake. It was a reminder of everything that I would never be, and everything that I longed for so much.
My ears were sharp, picking up every sound in the house; but the only sound I really wanted to hear was the phone ringing. It never did, and I convinced myself that it never would, that he didn't love me. After all, who could love me? Who could love a disaster? No, he didn't love me. He couldn't. No one loved me. I don't love me.
I placed my hands, spread out, onto my stomach, trying to find some sort of heat. It did nothing except make my stomach even colder.
The TV in the background was talking about politics, the ever-famous upcoming election. What is this world coming to? I think to myself. It's funny, the way everyone has their own, personal problems, and the world has it's problems that everyone shares. Problems. That is what defines life, problems and the solutions that never seem to fit the way we would like them to.
I am far too cold, extremely cold. I pull my body together even closer and rock back and forth, trying to escape my mind. Open the door in my head, walk out, lock the door and throw away the key. What happiness that would bring. Then things would be perfect, truly perfect. Not the distorted, emaciated, scarred image of perfection that is stained on my thoughts, like blood on a white sheet.