your winged eyeliner can't fly you out of this, i'm sorry

i love you, i love you, i love you

MC, i know i don't say it enough
and you're falling apart faster than we can put you together

and yeah, 
i see you in myself, 
the blind terror and scramble to tape ourselves together

i'll be honest here, 
blunt like the baseball bats we dragged on the grass as children

you're thin. 
you're not skeletal anymore, 
but you're thin and you eat tons upon tons of junk food,
slide chocolate and chips and pop down your throat like you're a bird

swallowing your sins in sugar

and you never gain a pound
still stay thin and athletic and i-

i am not. 

i am many things, 
many broken and bad things, 
but i am none of your things. 

my body's soft and cushioned, 
rounded edges and blurred outline 
and i hate it 

so yeah, 
maybe i resent you just a little bit. 
because i hate myself 
and my curves make dysphoria swell in the well of my mouth 

and i've learned to hold it back
swallow it back down 
to lie uneasy in my stomach 

but you don't care about anything, MC.

i care too much 
and you care too little

because yeah, 
depression's your poison, 
the pills you drown yourself in 

i can spell it 
mouth it with my lips 
like you'd gain points for a correct "hibiscus" in a spelling bee

so i know it's not me, 
in the back of my head, 
bouncing like a rubber ball on white walls, 
i know it's not me. 

i'll admit that doesn't help much, though. 

we're both ill and dancing around each other
steps rehearsed and stumbling 

and you know one day we'll trip and crash and burn. 

you're just waiting for the flames
and i'm waiting for the ash. 

The End

0 comments about this poem Feed