Trigger warning: This post contains a moderate discussion of anorexia and an extensive discussion of rape.
Your body is claustrophobic, self. Your day is claustrophobic.
Only. Ever. Ashes for dinner.
Snow in your basement hole, ozone outside.
Drowse and dream of outtakes.
Wake, wash, rinse, repeat.
Still the dirt, the hands.
Attempt food, attempt words.
You are made of calories, every ounce of you.
The lights are snagged fingernails. Sound is a drill bit.
Yelling in your cavern head?
This is your pennance. You are the guilty one, little seven-year-old you, for not heeding warning chimes.
Worthless, self, you are worthless. You are not a person, anymore. That is what gets taken.
No justice, my dear, for you. Only memories of straw, of swinging door, of do not—oh God—do not go in there.
Stupid. Stupid. Self.
Self, I’m sorry, self. Let me go back and fix it. Grab the magic erasor, the water—and scrub. I’ll take it away, I promise. In this space, for you, one minus one will equal one.
Remove the wallpaper, paint over the words: IT’S STILL THERE UNDERNEATH.
It didn’t happen once, you say, memory makes it happen a dozen times, a hundred.
Tell me he doesn’t live happy with this stolen bit of you, self. Tell me there are prison bars inside. Tell me he doesn’t get to walk free, post inspirational quotes, give talks on forgiveness he never asked.
No anger, you say, you cannot be angry.
Don’t you think this makes God angry?
You want to throw tables.
God threw tables.