bugbitecutie

[bugbitecutie]

Exhale Every day you breathe in and out. You feel unchanged sheets and the toe ring digging into your pinky toe. Every day you choose to breathe. Every day you make the choice to smile, to laugh, to live happily. Every day you try. Some days you fail. There is always tomorrow. You have been used by men. You have been bruised by men. You have been brought to tears by the words of men. You have been brought to your knees by men. A man stripped away your innocence. Your cried yourself to sleep that night. You took five showers that night. Scrub. Scrub. You have been called crazy by men, unlovable. You have been called fucking worse. You have been destroyed, defiled, and defaced by men. Your heart remembers everything. You remember everything. You have earned your right to scream at men. To break his nose. To break his heart. You have learned to be mean to men. To spit on them. The landscape of your body has been raped and stripped bare by the hands of boys. You fought, really fought. You promise yourself. You screamed, scratched, clawed and ran. You fought until the feeling in your stomach went empty. The cool blade on your pale skin sends a shiver down your right leg. Paralyzed. You could’ve fought harder. The feeling in your stomach sinks deeper. You would do anything to be home, to be safe. You would murder to be seven years old. But you aren’t, safe. That boy in the Lindsay Lohan movie isn't going to save you. You might die. You feel the hair on your arm pulse along with your heartbeat. You burp bubbles. It starts in your fingers and creeps into your toes. His rough hands. You died your hair blonde because it was brown that night. Now it’s all mixed together, like cookie dough. The rain colors in the lines as windshield wipers go side to side. Side to side. The trees contrasted a bright green against the wet pavement. It’s fake looking. Your sweatshirt is worn down, the fuzz disintegrated. It’s red, the sweatshirt. Your fingernails dig into your palm; wrapping tighter around the black steering wheel. Everything is blurry. You pull to the side of the highway. Scratch your neck until it bleeds. One. Two. Three. Your dad used to tell you to count to ten. Now you smoke weed. You write post-it’s in blue pens. You think about the blanket that isn’t folded. You let the messy build inside, burying your head in the sand. You write everything down, checking it again. It’ll only take five seconds. You don’t like change. Things that feel different, like the change in lightening quickens your heartbeat. Hot fire swells in place of anxious thoughts. You punch pillows. You stare at a ceiling filled with dimly lit plastic stars. You have no money, no passions, no love. You have anxiety that weighs on you like Jupiter, full of stardust waiting to burst. You dream of fictional characters in controlled environments. The blanket will never lay straight. Your brain runs up and down through window after window. You have to see everything all at once. You’ll forget if you don’t. You walk along Pacific Beach. The air feels salty. Blurred faces skate past you bringing a small gust of wind through your knotted hair. You feel the knife in your side as you walk. You could die on this walk. You wouldn’t care if the knife was real. If one of the blurred faces was him. The memories would cease. The blood would dry. Everything would be still. Breathe in and out.