September 27, 2016 § Leave a comment
I always think I’ve broken, I always bounce back. Each time though, I lose parts of myself. Porcelain chipping away. There’s that quote from someone about alcoholism, “it happened slowly, then suddenly.” And one day I’ll be gone.
I used to be given dolls, they were usually different ethnicities. Stereotypes. I don’t know what my obsession in collecting them was. I remember going to the Cracker Barrell, which for some reason, sold porcelain dolls, and collecting my allowance money for trips so I could buy them.
I am collected. An item on a shelf. Easily forgotten afterward. I walk streets, rain drops sprinkle down. I want to lay down on the concrete. My eyes jolt about, noting the faces around me. My eyes water, I touch my cheek, feel the skin start to change shape, fall away.
I scrape at the pavement with my stubs of nails. I want to pick up my pieces, puzzle myself into a human. There’s always the dream, anticipation of what could become of me, but I put it off. Master procrastinator. One day I will be perfect, pure, beautiful, successful. I want to be the dream of me. I am so horribly limited. I wear a mask, don’t acknowledge how poorly I think of myself and my abilities.
I eat the dirt on the pavement below me. My body shifts, feeling the grating against my ribs. And I love it. I am soft, malleable. The sidewalk scratches my cheek. It’s for me. It’s what I wanted.
September 3, 2016 § 1 Comment
Wet your fingers, the bowl next to you. Chew the clay off the block, feel it begin to soften in your fingers. Press the peddle, run the wheel. I begin to take shape in your hands. The curves and edges of myself are your will. Create me, I am yours.
Something calming about control outside of yourself.
“Take off your clothes.”
I begin to. My pale, shaking fingers reach for the straps of my bra. I can feel eyes, but I keep my eyes focused downward. Soft belly, invisible skin, white enough to see purple lattices of vein like an old woman.
I prepared for this. Hours before the mirrors, seeing all of the parts of myself at every angle. Hairs, discolorations, those fucking veins, parts of flesh that shake. Hit myself and I’ll bruise further. He wouldn’t like that.
I was late a few weeks back, working until last call and not wanting to rush back so quickly. Offered drinks and grass with my coworkers, I knew how it would end afterward, but I wanted it. I didn’t explain, I just let him. I knew what would happen, the punishment, but I wanted it. I wanted the knuckles in my jaw.
“Text me when you’re pretty again.”