Some Days

fingertips

my fingertips barely touch the surface of the mirror, in what reflects my most vivid of dreams. to be loved, touched like I’m a secret that’s meant to be told, and a reflection that’s seen but never meant to be shown.

i imagine what it feels to be admired, to match an energy so surreal my dreams can’t even begin to create a scene so magical. so what is it? will i ever be loved, respected, praised, or celebrated?

my fingertips have calluses from wrists bruised with scars deeper than stains. calluses so thick I can’t feel what I want to, and I don’t know how to react. to myself, to the world, and to anything at all.

so I shout, and I scream. and no one hears anything. maybe one day, I’ll be able to finally feel something.

When will it be my turn?

when will it be my turn to get a call, a text from you saying you appreciate me?

I don’t know. But these days seem grim, and my solitude is my only solution, resulting only in sadness.

maybe I’m a monster on a hill, a teddy bear trapped in a dollhouse, a ring settling for a pinky. and everything I do isn’t enough for us

I hope— one day I won’t overthink this like I always do.

your eyes are swollen.

yes I know, I’ve always been this way.

your wrists are scarred.

yes I know, they’ve been holding my pain.

your cheeks are hallow.

yes I know, my stomach has been turned inside out.

your ribs are showing.

yes I know, they poke out of my shirt.

Now you know, I’ve just always been this way. and this is how things have always been.

I’ve been losing my appetite

I’ve been losing my appetite, and no it hasn’t been recently — it’s been years.

My whole life actually. It’s always been like this.

Have I always been scary to look at?

I lay on the floor of my room staring at my ceiling through the gaps of broken fingers, wondering if I’ll ever change. I don’t know.

That takes strength though, right? I don’t know if I have any more of that left. The fight in me has disappeared.

The only ones fighting for me now are my parents shaking my frail body like a rag-doll as I stare into the abyss reminding me that I’m still alive. That I need to drink water. That I need to eat. That I need to take it step by step.

But all I feel is this impending doom. I’m tired of everything. Everyone. Me. I'm tired of myself feeling tired. I’m mean and I’m usually never mean. Why am I being so mean? Especially, to myself.

Someone once told me eating wasn’t meant to be enjoyed, it was meant for survival. I appreciate the way they tried to help. But I think they failed to realize I’m tired of surviving. I’m exhausted, actually.

So I’ve— like always, been losing my appetite. Everything tastes bland, everything is so uninteresting, and everything isn’t worth eating for.

I’m happy for you

You stop caring and I’m happy for you. I’m not someone worth thinking about anymore really.

I hold a lot of baggage and that’s something you don’t need right now. Or ever.

So I’ll be happy for you because I think being away from me is the best that life will give you.

and I’m a lot, I know. And I’m sorry.

What is it about me?

What is it about me that keeps you off the edge of your seat? Anticipating for me to trip on my left knee and fall over at your feet.

Caught in the act of a scene you made all in your head. Cut, scene, end.

Folding me in-between pages on a book that’s unable to close shut. Ruining the books you showcase on your bookshelf.

What is it about me that is so unnerving? That you wait for me to falter just to bring me down even further.

What is it about me where you find the need to nitpick at every little thing?

What is it about me where you need to know my every little move? As if my line cannot cross between others.

I’m stuck in a limbo of wanting to make you proud, and yet never ever being the one you choose to praise. So I’ll walk away, giving you an inch made you take me for miles.

So I choose to ask myself now, what about me?

I believe in you! And unicorns, but mostly you! Just wanted to send you a smile today :)

Thank you lovely!

I wonder if you know

I wonder if you know which song is about you, which letter is written for you, which smile comes from you, which gift under the millions were from me.

Wait no— you don’t actually pay attention. Because last time I asked how you liked the gift I sent you, you forgot it was from me. So, I stopped asking.

So, I stopped texting, stopped calling. and there was silence without your laughter. Laughs that weren't meant for me.

my wrists are tinier than the size of a water bottle, veins peering blue and green as they wrap around what so little of what holds me together.

they hold scars on them, deep and some that are fading.

so I wear long sleeves, on days where the sun blasts and burns my cheeks red and tan.

my scars sometimes glisten when my palms brush against the steel strings of a brown stained guitar. and it tingles like the lines on the calluses of my fingertips.

hands that have seen so much greif. elbows protruded with bones that are sharp as knives.

with the gust of the wind, I could break. and I pray for that everyday.

I’ve gotten used to being treated this way

I’ve gotten used to being ignored, of having my hellos be greeted with rolled eyes.

I’ve gotten used to my palms being stained with ink from letters I stayed up writing until dawn, waiting by the mailbox just to never get any letters written back.

I’ve gotten used to being as nice as I can be, and getting called unauthentic.

I’ve gotten used to you ignoring me as we pass through the hallway, as I sat alone on graduation day holding my own hand because no one wanted to hold mine.

I’ve gotten used to always being the one who messages first, and waiting for a reply until a new moon passes us by.

But maybe it’s time I get used to loving myself enough, to not make myself endure all of this. When will it be my turn to grow? To be apart from your shadow? Maybe it’s time to let go.