untitled #13
“soooo, what are you doing?”
a text message from you.
how do i tell you that i’m laying in bed crying for the third time today?
the first was because i couldn’t cook an omelette,
the second was because i hate my body,
and the third was because i wish that i could say that despite all this sadness, i still want to see you.
i don’t want to see you.
let me rephrase.
i don’t want you to see me.
i am a shell of the girl you first met…
except that shell has gained 20 pounds and doesn’t really wear makeup anymore.
i don’t know how to talk to you without sounding fake, like each word is forced —
because each word IS forced, communicating at all takes all of my effort and willpower.
every time my phone chimes with a call or a text, i get a sharp shrill of panic in my chest because good god
i don’t want to have to speak, i don’t want to have to pretend i’m okay.
i go back and forth between being genuinely okay and being the type of sad you can’t describe.
i know you don’t want me to feel this way.
i know that me feeling this way will, in turn, make you feel this way.
and i don’t want that.
because i love you, i want to keep you away.
you don’t deserve this hollowed out girl.
i don’t want you to hold me while i cry because eventually i’ll start crying because i realize how fucking pathetic i am
and you’ll get tired of it and wonder how a person can cry for so long.
you tried to have sex with me a week ago and instead of passionate love-making,
i started passionately crying because i can’t stand the thought of my fat naked body on top of your beautiful one.
i couldn’t breathe and you wanted to know what was wrong but you have no idea how hard it is to tell the one that loves you that
you don’t love yourself.
i know you get annoyed with me when i don’t tell you how i feel but how can i?
i love you.
i’m afraid if you know how sad i am and how much self-hatred i contain,
you won’t love me.
you are my reason, my closest friend, my entire future.
that’s why every time you get annoyed with me
i have to try so hard not to start sobbing because
a little voice in the back of my head is saying that if you leave, i’ll have nothing
and if i have nothing then i may as well be dead.
because i already want to die, and i have something.
i can’t tell you that.
i can’t tell you that the other night when i left your house, i started sobbing heavily in my car and before i knew it i was shouting
“please let me die”
to a god that i don’t entirely believe in.
and that every time i saw a pole or a tree i thought of stomping on the gas and aiming for it,
but was too afraid that it wouldn’t kill me and all i’d be left with is a busted car and a lot of pity.
i don’t want you to think i’m crazy.
i already think i’m crazy.
this sadness will pass, it always does.
it’ll come back of course, it always does.
but how can i tell you?
