makes me feel nothing, but maybe
that’s just because none of it
is about me.
That’s all I wanted to say.
Sorry. You don’t deserve this,
but I want to be spiteful and
you’re my favorite person
to bring back from the dead.
So now that you’re here,
I’ll take my mouth and bury it
next to yours, pretend that
there wasn’t already
dirt in my teeth from the
last time I did this.
I don’t know what lonely is,
but it tastes like you."
I am a girl with a body that does not always fit me.
It’s hard to tell people that you feel like your thighs owe you something for being too big, that you apologize for the ways your hips stick. Nobody has ever seen me any differently, but somehow I don’t think this body is mine. I am a girl with a body like a jigsaw puzzle, with a body I am still trying to fix. I am a girl with a hard body to love.
I am a girl with a body like an accident. I am a girl with a body that feels bloated sometimes, a body that has scars and stretchmarks. I am a girl with an unwanted body. I don’t always get told I’m beautiful; I don’t always think for myself.
Some days, I wake up so tired of this body, so angry at its creaks and moans, hating the ways it falls apart, hating everything, from the cellulite to the burn scars to the acne to the bruises. Some days, I would give anything to leave my body behind, slip it off like the most delicate of silken robes and walk around naked in a way nobody else seems to understand.
It’s hard to live in a body that has never been good enough. I don’t know how to explain myself, other than to say that I’ve been waging a war against my body for too long now. I want to say I’m sorry. I am a girl with a body that needs an apology, with a body that needs healing from all these ways I’ve wounded it. Nobody ever taught me to somehow pick a survivor out of these ashes and tell them to make peace with the killers of their country. It’s hard to live in a body that insists on pulling itself apart, a body that doesn’t know any better. It’s hard to live with this body when it is a universe collapsing.
This is my body — rough, worn, beaten. This is my home, my bed, my graveyard, and I will stand in the ruins I have made of this body and turn it into something to be learned. I will not let my body be a wreckage.
This is my body, scarred and bruised. This is my body, lonely. This is my body, however unwanted. My body —say it with me: my body. Mine, mine, mine."
One of the more helpful and insightful things I’ve seen about depression/suicide in the last couple of days.