you are 12 years old in your mother’s bed with the late-night news playing on the television in the back of the room so you don’t feel quite so lonely in your sickened stupor. the other night would spur in you a loneliness that would transcribe itself across several days—rob your throat of your voice, your limbs of your ability to move. your whole body just a dull ache and filled with prescription medications.
I was saying, “I’m sorry, I am so sorry” and a cute boy or two was telling me it’s okay, I’m endearing, different. but there’s nothing endearing about the alcoholic punchline that results in my smoking a cigarette with a sore throat and carrying on a conversation with someone whose name I can’t or don’t even care to remember now, nothing different about the way I can throw myself around to be seemingly everywhere seemingly at once, even when I’m exhausted.
I am a Georgia peach and it is the end of summer, see where I have gone tender? a tiny half-moon at the sharpest point of my left hipbone, a web across the concave of flesh between the bones in my right knee, a purple stain inside the tattoo on the back of my lower left arm, a bright, almost fluorescent blue splotch running down the length of my upper-right arm, and a double crescent, swollen bruise beneath my chin—a new one altogether.
it is not romantic to sit inside your parked car at 2:30 am in the middle of downtown sobbing because you don’t know who to call, to make everyone believe you when you say, “hey, I have this under control” only to erupt suddenly when no one’s around.
the only urge I have left is to run away. the same one I knew I would have if you ever left, I think it knew it was coming all along.
I am freshly bathed in clean, brand new PJ’s drinking good coffee and getting smothered in puppy kisses and cuddles and right now I feel loved and at home despite how sick and banged up I am
how terrible to die each night on the blade of our horizon // r.i.d
Leave. Always leave.