Sometimes I like my pain, because in my aching I can hear my blood rushing and my heart beating and when I drown and I struggle my hands get sore but they get strong and I know I have a meaning.
Still hurts though. I'd rather be aching all day from smiling than from the rotting in every part of me that makes me sick and brittle boned and so hard to be around. Hard to talk to. Words are precious, you know. They keep you awake at night. And they can make you laugh in the middle of class and not even care because the happiness is so pure it's like gold. Like the sweetest kind of contraband. I get that now. I punish myself with it. I miss it and cry over it.
It's not mechanical. I can't just make it stop. Press the button. Crank the wheel. It's like what we're learning in chemistry. Neon and mercury and uranium and chlorine. I think I'm filled with all the wrong chemicals.
I don't know what happened. Maybe my heart exploded.
I didn't even notice.
And I remember the didn't used to be, and it was grand and it was wild and it tasted like chlorophyll and lemonade and youth. And I was okay. We were together and we were forever but then I grew and stretched, and suddenly the mirror made me angry. And somebody shot a bullet through my shooting star and made it fall. All the oxygen left my chest and didn't say goodbye because life was so ugly right then and
life is so ugly all the time.
