stuck in slow-motion until this is through and it's kill or be killed
The room is hot and cold at the same time; I wear two sweatshirts and bare feet. The nailpolish on my toes is chipped and I don't remember the last time I painted them, or cared. It's a new year, and I have no resolutions. That's a lie, but I don't think I've quite figured out what promises I'd like to make and break to myself yet.
The cat whines for food. She stares at me with green eyes that I always wished were aubergine and begs. Her belly skims the floor and I look away. I'm hungry too, but there will be no eating until dinner. I reach to type another sentence, and my ring finger throbs. I'm missing a chunk of skin there, from some mystery accident. No matter, I'm more than used to going about my business with less skin than should be there. Like my thumbs. Always red, always raw. Peeling off another layer allows me to finally sigh in relief; gives me the ability to shut off my mind to anything else that bothers me.
My fingers have been constantly oozing blood for the past week. I have been told I'm a whore whose downfall is indulgence. I will never love anything aside from my fat self. I am always wrong. I could never stimulate intellect or be a muse. And it goes right through me. My temperature literally rises when I read these things- I feel like I should scream loud enough for the entire mall to stop and look up in terror. And if they did, they would see nothing other than a girl who looks younger than she is. Clutching a pink cell phone with scabbed and white knuckles, hyperventilating because no amount of deep breathing could calm her insides. So instead, I rip a piece of myself off. Discard it, because there is already too much of myself to contain.