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Literature Text
i heard you howling
at two a.m. in the bathroom,
the rain drowning out
your dreams.
i heard you tearing at
the hollow of your throat.
you'd think that no one else would be
as sly as you to know
you aren't really what you say,
you're not okay--
you're not okay.
you named her anne after
the mother that never raised you.
called her your baby,
but never once did she
press her tongue against her teeth.
i saw the song lyrics
scrawled on the back of your hand
when you were sound asleep,
fist in stomach.
she's got bruises on her neck
that match up with yours.
she's got fingers like your daddy;
about that one i'm sure.
i read the words that hung
on the top of your lips.
i read the in betweens
the unders and overs
and the everything i could.
you took her in the
bathroom with you last night,
and i don't remember if
it was howling that i heard,
or illicit-sounding screaming.
she's not what you want her to be.
she's not--
she's not.
and i read in the papers
yesterday or the day before
about a girl who weighed
eighty-three pounds.
she died on her birthday.
her fingernails were painted dark
and she had scars littering her skin.
she wasn't crazy, baby.
she was just trying a little
too hard to fit in.
and i think, maybe,
her name had been anne.
my skin is kinda pale
and iridescent these days.
it shimmers between this
sunset color, and another.
i can see and name every vein
in my arm because i've
counted and seen and swiped
and cut and scratched
every single one of them.
i know you heard me howling
on the bathroom floor last night,
eyes wide open, fingers dug deep.
i know you saw me at two a.m.
telling all my secrets to the
bathroom, because the bathroom
is the only one who knows
every one of my secrets.
in fact, her name
is anne.
at two a.m. in the bathroom,
the rain drowning out
your dreams.
i heard you tearing at
the hollow of your throat.
you'd think that no one else would be
as sly as you to know
you aren't really what you say,
you're not okay--
you're not okay.
you named her anne after
the mother that never raised you.
called her your baby,
but never once did she
press her tongue against her teeth.
i saw the song lyrics
scrawled on the back of your hand
when you were sound asleep,
fist in stomach.
she's got bruises on her neck
that match up with yours.
she's got fingers like your daddy;
about that one i'm sure.
i read the words that hung
on the top of your lips.
i read the in betweens
the unders and overs
and the everything i could.
you took her in the
bathroom with you last night,
and i don't remember if
it was howling that i heard,
or illicit-sounding screaming.
she's not what you want her to be.
she's not--
she's not.
and i read in the papers
yesterday or the day before
about a girl who weighed
eighty-three pounds.
she died on her birthday.
her fingernails were painted dark
and she had scars littering her skin.
she wasn't crazy, baby.
she was just trying a little
too hard to fit in.
and i think, maybe,
her name had been anne.
my skin is kinda pale
and iridescent these days.
it shimmers between this
sunset color, and another.
i can see and name every vein
in my arm because i've
counted and seen and swiped
and cut and scratched
every single one of them.
i know you heard me howling
on the bathroom floor last night,
eyes wide open, fingers dug deep.
i know you saw me at two a.m.
telling all my secrets to the
bathroom, because the bathroom
is the only one who knows
every one of my secrets.
in fact, her name
is anne.
Literature
Paper-Thin Promises
the first time I caught sight of your
glistening, marble eyes,
I decided you disgust me.
I hate you the way I hate perfection:
merciless, like the snap of mantis jaws.
every fact of you is pretentious,
held high like you raise a middle finger.
You, the artist, always sculpting things,
tried to squeeze my malleable heart like white clay
and stash it in your pocket to rattle with stones.
paint me an unflinching self portrait, my dear:
this skyscraper of a boy shaking with anticipation
to build and destroy, build and destroy.
you sink in tooth and talon at first mention of beauty,
love-biting Aphrodite as though you were equals.
you're a statu
Literature
defeathered
and this is where we bury our hearts,
between self-defeating personality disorders
and burnt bridges and midnight ramblings
we promise ourselves aren’t true;
embedding our memories in forsaken homes
like it is a conscious decision to shed
our wings (reptiles don’t fly)
and maybe I am the monster of every
myth: wide-eyed and jagged toothed and
looking to regain a piece of myself the
world borrowed, many moons ago
as I falter and stumble over my own unaware
feet, wreaking havoc, reeking of self-acquittal--
all I ever wanted to do was belong.
dreams are flaws much like the hearts we
flaunt on our sleeves, and I seem to
have len
Literature
Oak
i knew a girl once,
with an oak heart and guarded hands
(gloved from touch)
but she
uncrossed her ankles,
let naked fingertips
touch well-read lips, and
her heart kind of turned
into ash.
i miss that girl,
with the oak heart -
she was tougher.
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"Don't worry Anne, no one's going to notice. No one's going to know that you're starving yourself because you're already fat."
Did I ever mention I'm in a fighting battle between thinspo/dieting/exercising/starving/purging? Because I am. And I'm happy to say I've lost 14 pounds but damn. That is never enough.
It's just never enough.
Did I ever mention I'm in a fighting battle between thinspo/dieting/exercising/starving/purging? Because I am. And I'm happy to say I've lost 14 pounds but damn. That is never enough.
It's just never enough.
© 2012 - 2024 A-Lovely-Anxiety
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