creepyally

[creepyally]

I’m tired of living my life at a percentage, one eye on my reflection and the other on the door. I’m so afraid that I can’t even imagine being kissed, like a real kiss not the movie kind, because it’s not safe because I know I know what people see when they look at me because I know how it feels to hand over love and receive disgust. Honestly, most things are at least uncomfortable. But there are times, times when living and breathing are thoughtless, seamless, easy. The ocean’s water and wind call and I walk for hours barefoot in the shallows. Other days my hands dig through warm, kind soil and are dusted off on my favorite blue jeans before plucking a cherry tomato beautiful as all the jewels the earth has ever crystallized. I dance alone in my underwear with sunshine on my skin to songs playing just for me. The thing is, I want more. Years ago as a child I made the choice to trade my pain for fog. Lots of other things got lost in the haze. It’s probably time now, to clear it and stand in the sun but it burns my skin instantly. Seems right that the first thing after so long is pain again, after all that’s what I bargained with the devil in the first place over, but I wasn’t expecting a new kind of hurt. When I was in kindergarten my cousin started to “practice” with me. I don’t remember how it got started, once she told me it was me. I don’t know if I trust her. Eventually, I realized it wasn’t right and said we shouldn’t do stuff like that anymore. She told me that I had a choice: practice with her or wait until I was older and try my luck with boys. I’d never really considered it and in the moment I hated the idea of kissing boys so I chose the first option. Later, I went over the choice she gave me again and again. I couldn’t understand the two options, or more precisely the second. After much deliberation I determined that she meant that if I didn’t practice with her no one would ever like me because I’m inherently unlikable. It made sense, it was the early 2000s and I was a chubby kid, not great at making friends, and my older sisters thought I was the most annoying thing on earth. Probably didn’t help that my dad yelled all the time and sometimes broke things and my mom sometimes yelled back and I was scared of both of them. Also, again, early 2000s which when I think back on it was mostly Victoria’s Secret angels and people calling Britney Spears fat and 9/11. I figured my cousin was taking pity on me because she was pretty and blond and skinny and loved me. The thing went on, and got worse, into second grade. By then I had become what I am now and have been the majority of my life. A coward. Fear is everywhere all the time. Went to therapy off and on for over a decade and turns out that’s called PTSD. Last summer I went out to a bar for the first time, got drunk, and woke up covered in puke in the drivers seat of my car with the smell of some sick fuck burned into my nose and the feel of his skin sticky on my lips and a bruise or tear or I don’t know what in the back of my throat. Not gonna lie, that shit got me fucked up. Long story short I got pretty close to killing myself, told some people about it, and here I am on meds and I can still feel that tear in my throat. I figure, shit I don’t know if living is already gonna fucking suck because of shit like this I can take it hurting if I get to really feel the good shit too. I want to be present in my classes, take chances on new friends, say what I mean, mean what I say, and cry tears of rejoice in the kitchen when I taste a ravioli I crafted with my own hands and know that I’ve finally made my masterpiece then sit down to jot down some more notes on a old, stained, wrinkled recipe.

[creepyally]

the only people who have ever wanted me did so because they could take advantage of me

[creepyally]

how the fuck is anyone ever going to love me like this? i want so desperately for someone to listen, to want to discover me. i create these stories and selves and little lies again and again so that someone will look because being myself has never been enough to make someone care. if im broken like you think then you should know it was me who shattered the remaining pieces so that i could rearrange them to fit into someone else’s picture and over the years the shards have become so needle thin I can’t remember what i was before. was i a scuplture? a photograph? a measuring cup? the only evidence I have left is sharp glass that’s quickly becoming sand again. im fighting so fucking hard to be loved, to be something that someone wants and i have been for so long that I don’t know what’s true about me anymore. hobbies and personalities i took up for other people make up most of my substance now and the shards have been glued together so many times they’ve taken on a bizarre and off putting shape. at least the glue stops me from losing pieces as fast as i used to. it’s a shame that their shape is so displeasing, im sorry for that. im sorry for the pieces that cut you when you stepped on them.

[creepyally]

give me your agony

ill let it curl

around my throat

instead, give it

the love it yearns

and scorns

you don’t have to hold mine

black pitch dribbling

from my lips

won’t scare me,

neither does the

death in your smile

my body is not a home for me

don’t worry yourself with

the lines cracking my

skin or the way i

look at you on

tuesday afternoons

i can take it i promise

[creepyally]