ghost stories

I wonder if your mother used to tell you ghost stories when you were five years old and wide eyed and hungry for the world, and I wonder if that’s why your eyes look so incredibly haunting. 

And I mean haunting in the sense that cobwebs get tangled in your eyelashes when you blink, and I mean haunting in the sense that bitter winters left layers of frostbite under your eyelids, and I mean haunting in the sense that I look at you and my worst fears reach out to grab me but I can’t look away.

Your eyes are ghosts and I am a body of graveyards, and you grab my hand and teach me what it’s like to be beautiful and dying. You teach me what it’s like to be beautiful and dying with your soul hanging between two palms that could never quite connect the right way. 

I learn about you in ways where you are unread thoughts and sleepless nights laid out in rows along your arms. l learn about you in ways where you are haunting eyes and cold hands and too much spirit for your chest to hold.

I wonder if your older brother taught you how to pick flowers out of their stems and wash them down the sink because darling, I know you love watching the water turn red and there are only so many ways you can kill time before you begin to kill yourself.

– excerpt from a book I’ll never write 


i’m sorry I had to kill us this way

Tell her, “I’m sorry I had to kill us this way.”

Tell her, “these are not apology letters, but eulogies. Eulogies for roadkill and dead trees and all the beautiful things we could have become before we let the decay catch up to us.” 

Tell her, “I’m crossing tightropes of words strung out of ex-lovers who meant way more than they should have, and you meant way more than you should have.”
Tell her, it is something you are not sorry about, tell her it taught you to walk one foot at a time instead of jumping right in.

Tell her, “I’m sorry I had to kill us this way, because there are certain graves that are too hard to dig through and my hands are not willing to bleed for you.”

– excerpt from a book I’ll never write 


no one belongs here more than you.

I’m about to admit something I rarely tell anyone, because it’s not important.
Today, is my birthday.
I don’t tell people or make a big deal of it, because it’s just another day.
I didn’t actually do anything worth celebrating all those years ago.  I mean, honestly my mother should be celebrated more so.  I almost killed her, and she lost quite a lot of blood.  Thankfully everything turned out just fine, so that’s cool.
Anyway, most of my birthdays I just feel sad.  Probably because I’ve worked every birthday since I was 17 years old, including my 21st birthday, so I just never felt the need to get excited and celebrate.
Today, was quite the exception.
Obviously I didn’t go crazy and celebrate, and I did have to work, but it was a not half bad day.
I didn’t have to deal with someone yelling at me for the toner turning their hair purple, because it was so damn white to begin with.
I didn’t have to deal with someone forgetting my birthday for the fourth year in a row.
I ate a two a.m. burrito.
I woke up next to an extremely lovely man.
I have three brand new books that I am excited to read.
I am so.. happy.

this isn’t like the last time.

The truth is, this isn’t like the last time.

I look at you and suddenly I want to be rooftops at sunset and empty classrooms and the way early September tastes on your lips.
but the sky hasn’t stopped crying for the past few days, and whatever words I could say slip into fog, and I’m scared of pulling my eyes away from yours and feeling you disappear again.
I want to kiss you, but I think I’ve cracked my lips against the teeth of open mouthed hungry boys while I was waiting for you to love me back.  If I ever press my lips onto yours again, you’ll drown in the echo of the sound my heart made when you left three months ago because I haven’t yet taught it to be quiet, and it screams against my chest whenever you’re around.

– excerpt from a book I’ll never write

quiet convos

ED: you'll lose weight.
Me: i'll lose myself.
ED: you'll gain control.
Me: i'll lose control.
ED: you'll be skinny.
Me: i'll be sick.
ED: you'll be confident, so many more people will like you.
Me: i'll push everyone away.
ED: you can finally wear that little black dress.
Me: i'll be insecure and hide in baggy jumpers, sweats, anything.
ED: you'll socialize.
Me: people will worry more and I'll lie, constantly saying, "I'm fine."
ED: you'll feel better
Me: i'll feel weak and tired.
ED: you'll reach your goal weight
Me: i'll never exist.
ED: you'll be great.
Me: i'll be dying.

there are so many days I have this fight with myself.
it’s never an easy battle, but for the past four years, I’ve won.
for six years, I lost.  That’s a quarter of my entire life, but I refuse to say that I “suffer” from an eating disorder.
Nobody forced me to have one.
Not the history of them in my family, not the media, not my peers.
It wasn’t something I set out to develop, but I clearly didn’t turn it away when it did.
It has taken many forms.
There are times when I had been heavier, and times when I’ve been lighter, but it has never gone away.  The thing is, when this happened, everyone asked me what caused it.
I’d say, “I don’t know”, knowing full well what it was.
Here’s the thing: it is literally SO EASY to hide eating disorders.
I did it consistently for six years.
My family that I lived with DIDN’T KNOW.
My boyfriend of two years that I’d spend nearly every day with DIDN’T KNOW.
My coworkers that would eat with me on my lunch break DIDN’T KNOW.
You can eat completely normal while you are with others, but still practice destructive behaviors when you’re alone.
I knew all the while it was dangerous, but it’s easy to dismiss the danger when you can’t actually see all the damage being done.
I may be underweight, but I am by no means “scary thin”.
Eating disorders cannot be measured by weight; they don’t always make you “skinny”.  However, they will always destroy the actual function of your body.
My life expectancy has been significantly decreased, and there’s no way around that.
There’s no “redo” button.
There’s no reversing the damage I have already caused.
I already have a heart murmur, not to mention any other damage done to my heart.  I may die relatively young from this damage, and it is from nothing other than this.
All I’m trying to say is: it’s serious, even if you can’t see it with your own eyes.

i was disappearing

i am edges where i am supposed to be curves.
no one ever taught me how to flaunt hipbones under red dresses.
i am blue veins running highways along my chest and too much soul for such little skin to wrap around.

i am spines that arch like mountains, cutting through earth and dragging their weight around my shoulders.
i am thighs that fall in valleys that never learned to touch the right way, and i wanted to carve at their edges with my claws.

i am teeth that love to bite but never swallow.
i am hands that learned to clutch bathroom tiles like a lifeline.
i was holding myself by the space my waist takes up and darling:
i was disappearing.

– excerpt from a book I’ll never write