Sunday, April 28, 2013

members of the crustacean family

You do not have me in the palm of your hand because I do not fit in the palm of your hand. It seems in the time it took you to blink, I've grown up and now I do not fit in your head or your life or your schedule, much less your hands. Your palms are bigger but my fingers are longer, maybe that's why I am clinging on more than you. But palms and fingers are not as good as knuckles in wiping away the salty leakages of eyes. Yours are calloused from boxing, which you have tried for forever to get me to do but I am simply not interested in violence for exercise I would rather run away, and mine are too soft, removable body scrub. They've been soaked for too long in a 100% organic saline solution.

Remind me why you call me your little girl, or an angel. Sometimes it feels like you're mocking me, because there is nothing about this presence of mine that is little. I speak too much and go too far and I simply occupy too much space. All this excess if my fault, I'm sure my bones are tiny gorgeous little things and I have sinned against them buy burying them in adipose tissue. Sometimes it feels like you're warning me. Or prompting me. Would I still be your angel, if I was dead? Would I be any angel at all? Not only an atheist  I am also forgetful. What if I forget the Young Women's pledge and promise? Where can I go without Faith, Divine Nature, Individual Worth, Knowledge, Choice and Accountability, Good Works, Integrity and Virtue? Who cares I'm lost either way, dead or alive, in the Inbetween. What if I forget how to breathe, what do you think that would count as? A mistake or a suicide? Only I'd know the truth. Despite the connections we've had and our shared genetic material, you ill never know and I hope that doesn't bother you.

I'm not angry. I love you. I just wish clocks went backwards occasionally so I could go back to the end of highschool where I lost all my friends but I had my father to pick me up every day after school and I lost 1/3 of my body weight in 4 months and I also lost my mind but I had someone to talk to and take me to the beach on days I was too sad to go to school, much less get out of bed. I miss you terribly, even though I see you every week. I wish you had left a substitute, anyone I could talk to. Right now my head is muffled because there is no more space for the thoughts to bounce around and I do not like this feeling at all. My skull can only stand so much pressure, all rocks crack, even mountains can shake from too much and that is what I am suffering from: an acute case of too much and there is no one else with hands big enough to catch what spills over.

trash

The light looked pretty on your skin and that's why I kissed you. Looking back it wasn't the most terrible decision I've made, but I doubt it would make it into the top ten best, either. It was three o'clock in the afternoon and your skin was sticky with my sweat, I'm sorry about that by the way, and the way your face angled into mine formed a cave so perfect, millions of years of slow and gentle erosion of a mountain side couldn't imitate it. Here pooled our warm breath. From this pool I drank, as if dying of thirst, or rather suffocating since I was drinking through breathing your air, and not water. Do you understand?

You kept me alive that afternoon, which was nice of you. I had a pleasant time there, tangled in your limbs and with knots of affection blossoming like tumors in my stomach. I didn't want to leave. I didn't want to go elsewhere, whether or not I've gathered up my things into my arms or bag, just sometimes want to leave but  that afternoon I didn't. I was content with being still  for the first time in a long time, the first time in a while where I didn't want to walk away and into traffic. But I still do, now. I'm sorry, I still think these things, here in my dorm room where it smells like incense and loneliness. You didn't fix me, you just calmed me for 5 lovely hours. Perhaps that was what you were meant to do, here with me, not to sound narcissistic or self-involved even though I kind of am even though I am too crap a person to have that be justified, but maybe just maybe you were destined to hold my hand and lean into me and over the back of my chair so I could rest the top of my head against your stomach. Maybe it was your job, assigned by some Other or Greater or Imaginary thing, to keep me still for a while. I've had a terrible week and if there was a bathtub in my dorm, then I would have filled it with tears three times over in the past seven days. Thank you for helping me forget that, how very kind of you. I think I am rambling but I can't help myself, it's only been 16 hours since I've kissed you, how can you expect me to have collected my jelloid pieces up already?

But every time I pulled away and placed a few terrible inches between your lips and mine, I asked 'what?' and here is what I wanted: I wanted you to smile and tell me things, stories, jokes or funny words. I wanted you to say something about politics or a song you like. I wanted you to talk about your passions and who you are, because I want to know these things about you. I wanted you to explain why, even though this hadn't happened yet mind you, when your friends dropped me off where I could get a cab and you'd already left because urgent matters called your attention away from me, why did they seem reluctant to leave me in a place unknown why did they say I needed to be kept safe because I was your dot dot dot, fill in the blank. I wanted to have a word, a weapon, a solution, a shield to fill in that goddamn blank and only you could have given it to me. I wanted you to tell me that the light looked pretty on my skin as well, even though it probably did not. But you didn't do any of these things and what tumbled out of your mouth was the word 'nothing' over and over again and now that's exactly what I feel, nothing at all.

Friday, April 26, 2013

fingernails


The evidence of my crime was tucked away neatly underneath my fingernails. Despite the training they received in police academy and despite their best intentions and interrogation techniques, I doubt they will ever find him. He has the best hiding place in the world, ten in fact. A suicide, the official record reads. He took this many pills when his stomach, tired organ that it was, could only take about half. The acids that have resided in his abdomen broke through and, like a rebellious teenage gang, vandalized the rest of his pretty pink insides. Maybe the autopsy will reveal my name burned into his intestinal wall, carved into his arteries or maybe the villi of his lungs have been arranged to spell out the letters that address me. I doubt it though. He never saw it coming, he never had time to prepare, to plan revenge.

I pointed a gun to the pretty little triangle where his eyebrows and the top of his nose meet. It’s like a park between neighbourhoods, the perfect place to hide a body for children to find. I had kissed him over a dozen times in this exact spot. I had felt his skin, his years and his acne outbursts of the past, through him right there, in that spot. When I lifted my chin and contact was broken, I wonder how much of him I stole away. How many of his skin cells did I carry on my body, adding excess numbers to my bathroom scale? Tonight I shall boil myself and rid myself of him. Tomorrow I shall get a manicure and pay someone to scrape beneath the white tips of my nails and remove him from me permanently. These are the scissors, the razor, the sharp edge, that I will use to cut the thread that had connected us for so long.

At gunpoint, he swallowed. Down the hatchet, washed down by his please’s and don’t’s and oh god oh god’s, those pills were the last things he will ever have tasted. Not me, not my skin or sweat or lips or hair or tongue. It was gel encapsulated death and fear.

Once his eyes sewed themselves shut, I touched him. Oh lovely boy, why did you make me do this to you when I loved you so much? How selfish, how cruel. We could have been happy together, at least five days out of seven. This is when I made my mistake: fingers in his hair, tracing the corners of his mouth and the figure of his bones through his skin, I collected him as a keepsake. Slowly it built up, all that grime and dirt and tissue and sweat collected to form a dark organic mud. My soft patter, patter on his cold body took too long, was too thorough, I was too silly a girl. I hold my hands in my lap and look at them and wonder why this man in a uniform is not looking at them too. They have such a great story to tell and no one who wants to listen and that is the greatest tragedy of all this week.

higher upper smarter

I've been thinking about taking a minor in History. I really like the subject and the fact that everything is stories, though sometimes they have suffered the tragedy of being written down in a boring voice. I like knowing about realities that were, I like knowing about the people that have walked past the trees I walk past. I like it. I like History.

Maybe I'll apply today, or maybe Monday because right after my classes today I'm leaving for my grandfather's house to spend the weekend (insert here crossed fingers and tearful pleas to god oh god oh god not let me gain weight, give me strength to shut my mouth and go jogging for the hours reserved for meals). I shall climb the stairs and get an application form from the department that I can never really remember how to find, besides that there are stairs involved. I will fill it out and submit myself to another course two courses in History and two electives,  all my own doing unlike the two subjects we're required despite our actual program of study. I'm excited.

Besides that, summer class is going quite well. It's the end of the second week and what with the accelerated rate at which classes are paced, I really have no time to not think, every day, in and out, besides Economics, History, Filipino. I walk and run and skip and idle from CTC to Bel to Berch. Everyday, everyday. Okay sometimes my mind wanders, when lectures feel dragged out, or maybe at night when I am exercising and hating the things that flowed down my throat today, I think about the way I like my shoulders now, but not my upper arms, I think about how the skin of our elbows look like the concentric circles of a tree, I think about why the bird who cannot sing hates me and sits outside my window every morning, I think about  how heavy my eyelids feel all the time, maybe it's the contacts or maybe it's my soul, I think about why he/she/whoever won't talk to me first, I think about my brothers, my parents, my cat, about how I can go days without conversation or anyone bothering me. I think about how I cannot kill myself now, since I have no roommates now and no one will find my body until the heat makes the smell and my skin and organs unbearable. But mostly I think about my subjects. Except tomorrow and the next day, as well as every other weekend, and maybe Monday next week because it's my 18th birthday. Also public holidays. 

Thursday, April 25, 2013

educational experiences

This is the problem with turning 18 in two weeks and having a little brother who is almost six months old: I love him too much that I've forgotten that, graphically if family trees are graphs, we're on the same level. I forget that we are technically, at least 11 days, we are both children. What I am painfully aware of, however, is how I can support my own head with the strength of the bones in my neck. I feel his soft skin and I love him so much that it bubbles out to the surface and dries my own out. I can read signs and books even though I know he cannot. I see cars and shoes and tables, chairs, spoons, trees and I know what they are. They are things that do things but to him they are completely foreign. What I am saying is that I have been thinking, because I can think, is that I have been doing too much thinking and my brain is so wonderfully heavy with information and trivia and manners and names and memories. I should really stop thinking, because my little brother seems so much happier than me. Maybe I should take an electric saw and a soup ladle to my skull and empty it.

I have two brothers. I am the middle child and the only girl and that is the truth, the truth, nothing but the truth. At least it was until junior year highschool. Let's tone down the drama because I hate talking about myself (at least things besides the shallow, the observations, the failed jokes). I really don't like to tell people how my gears fit together because I know, in the gut of every cell, that they do not care. People have their own shit to deal with. I'm going off because I am on things and what I am saying is that I will tell you a story now about my family, which no one can repeat or blab as if it was their own because it is mine godfuckingdamnit. Right. People with parents who are together freak me out because, despite the fact that my parents only got officially annulled when I was in freshman year highschool, they were never together. Sure they loved each other at some point, but that is beyond my memory and I really don't care about that time. I love my parents but they are separate entities. Their is no 'and' that  bridges mama to papa, no conjunction, no entity of parental solidarity. There never has been. So don't ask me if I care if my parents separated or if it affects me because it doesn't and if you assume that they need to be together for me to be okay in my stomach then I will sand in your face and then heat the grains trapped beneath your eyelids until they turn to glass and you can finally see my point.

I've gotten off topic.

I'm sad today, more so than usual, so excuse me.

In junior year highschool my mother was married to Mike, who is nice and makes good chili potatoes and peanutbutter and jelly sandwiches and he treated my cat nice and made my mother buy things to make the house nicer. They-and-they-and oh fuck it I don't want to tell this story. Basically I have another brother now and I'm not the middle child anymore because there is no middle in a group of four. Also I'm not a child anymore. Also I look at my darling babiest brother and I want to keep him in a plastic bubble away from me and my other siblings. I want him to learn and to grow up and to speak Tagalog and Bisaya and Ilocano and play sports and go to school and hate school and know our grandparents. I want him to learn how to speak and walk and do mathematics. I want him to do things I've never done and probably never will do, like cry from laughing too hard, or go skydiving, or live til he is old. I hope he never knows how he will die, never feels the flat and heavy stone of comfort settle inside him as he thinks 'I will deliberately be the death of me, someday, somehow'. I look at him and wish and pray on stars and to deities that he won't have to hold someone he loves while they are crying because they are sick in the head, and I hope he never feels like the best way out of a bad situation is by unlocking your blood from your skin with nails and thin pieces of sharp metal. I hope his little mind never wanders down dark paths and off cliffs. Sometimes I even hope he never gets to know me, that I die before his mind starts writing things down in permanent ink, so that I can't infect him with the sickness that I am. So that I don't have to explain the things that words cannot, but history does. How selfish and hideous of me.

I hope he never wonders why he breaths. I hope he smiles all the time without the corners of his little bow mouth feeling like rigor mortis is already setting in. I hope he never stops in the middle of planning his birthday and starts thinking, casually as if to decide what to have for lunch, whether or not he should live through it, and how to not to. I hope he can imagine himself growing up, can imagine himself at all, because he is wonderful and he is possibility and he is so soft and he smells so good and maybe once the people I know and the person I am, we were once like that but now we are not. A testament to the cruelty of time and change, written in stretchmarks across the back of my knees.

Mostly though, I hope to god buddha allah jesus and santa that he never forgets anything important. Our family has no history of Alzheimer's but three out of four of my father's children have empty spaces in their brains where things that were important used to be. One forgot how to smile, one how to eat and one how to laugh.

Wednesday, April 24, 2013

absolutely free time

There should probably be a disclaimer here, but I can't remember if I've started another post with one before already so I should maybe take the safe path and high road (yes, I know that isn't the typical use of the 'high road' but I consider it to also mean overpasses/footbridges, which really are safe road-crossing fingydings, all up up and away from speeding cars). So no disclaimer then.

Summer classes are having a strange effect on me: I am forgetting how to speak. I can still talk, oh yes, don't worry. My flimsy hold on language isn't going anywhere. I can recite in class and blog and text and write love letters. But I'm falling out of practice in the art of the conversation, not that I was ever much of an artist (too many, umms, wows, pauses, gosh, obscenities, oh oh oh's, and not-funny type jokes). But because of my schedule which fits none of my friend's schedule's, I really don't have anyone to regularly talk or hang out with. Combine this with my situation of no roommaties and wow look at that. It's 8 oclock at night and I think the last person I talk to was the cashier lady when I bought my lunch. Though, of course that's not exactly the case everyday, considering it's 7:44 in the morning right now and I'm not really a lady who lunches.

Positive side: I have cut back on some terrible vices and ingestions, like alcohol and snack time. I have so much time to exercise, I'm so deliriously happy. While stranded, at least I have with me a level of contact with the outside world, a means to make friends on new islands, and no pressure to eat eat eat and become fat fat fatter. It's a nice cool feeling against my palm, made by the reigns to my own freaking life, huzzah. Though secretly, and I hate to admit it, I miss home and the beach whenever and my mom asking me again and again and again and not ever at meal times, if I am hungry and bringing me food despite my actual answer and then me hiding it and throwing it away. Nothing quite like home, it is where the heart is after all. So despite the thump-thumping I feel in my chest, my blood pump must still be in Davao, in a ugly purple house with my mother and my cat. If that is my home. I hate growing up. I hate growing.

Despite all this free time, I haven't been writing at all. Oh okay, sure, my wrist still remembers the Roman alphabet since it is always flicking and looping and sliding from left to right as I write my notes in class, everyday, 10:30-3. But I haven't written anything about me, my life, something that people might read when I am dead, Lost Treasure/Indiana Jones-style, searching for clues. Why is she gone? Why did she do it? Was it planned? 

My life is one not worth writing down, but since blogs carry significantly less weight and cost than sheets of paper, I feel I'm insulting the universe less with every crap character. Still, I wish I had something terrible and offensive to be excited about. I'm growing sick and tired of the sound my body makes against knuckles. One can only hear hollow sounds so much before they open the box and shove something in to muffle the echoes.

Monday, April 22, 2013

budget magic fingers


I think I feel a fever coming on. Not a dance or music or party fever, a regular run of the mill, cold sweats and achy joints. Oh dear. I can't cut classes too, but hopefully I can manage to not look like the walking dead of tomatoland.

So summer classes have been okay, alright, nothing special. I have so much free time and my schedule matches up with my friends' to the furthest extent of passing each other as we walk from our first to second classes. Oh no. On the bright side, I've decided to finally finally finally volunteer at PAWS, since I have the time. Other things: menial jobs. I really don't mind waiting tables, ringing up cashiers, being that annoying sales lady who stands next to you as you browse through racks of dresses and who keeps saying 'dress, ma'am?'. I just need something to do. Though I really really want an internship or anything at UP NIGS, since rocks are my jam. 

Enough about that. Thoughts about what to fill my hours in with don't make good broadcast programming. 

Friday, April 19, 2013

nap time

Listen up because this is important: last night I had a dream about you. Note here that 'you' is something I say with a specific definition in mind. I am not talking about you, my reader, or you, the person who makes my heart go all a-flutter and who forcefeeds me caterpillars, or ever you, silly person of the general populace. This isn't a Dear Person letter, a demand, a rant, a dedication or even a sensical (sensible? a thing with sense) blog post. 

That's the problem with dreams. They are so very hard to define and because they're abstract, it's impossible to slap them in the face even when you sorely sorely really really truly badly want to. I've had dreams where I died, at my own hands; dreams where I jumped off cliffs, only to fall in love; dreams where I forgot what colors are right; dreams that made me not want to wake up; dreams where I would have rather amputated my own thumbs using a nail clipper than go back to sleep. These latter dreams are perhaps the best because they are catapults of the mind, they eject you from bed and make you wash the dishes or fix your closet or dance or write in a journal, anything oh god please just so I don't have to try and fall asleep again and feel that terrible heavy weight on my chest and feel the eyes of the supernatural or the imagined naturally super on me and my skin. 

The short and short of it: I know I had a dream last night and that it was stressful. I know that now, in the morning sunlight, my chest is tight and it feels like a worm composed of drill bits is vacationing in my ventricles. I know from the scratches that run parallel to my fibula that it was not a good dream, that I wanted to wake up. Or maybe that it was too hot a night and my tendency to battle the heat with an assault of fingernails on skin, a persistent little back and forth, a shallow digging into epidermal tissue that is supposed to, in some way, scare off the dry air from touching me, like when you wave fans back and forth over fresh food or rotting corpses to scare away flies. Maybe I should not have worn pajama pants. Boxers or underwear or the nude would have been a better idea. 

I have no idea who it was I dreamed of last night but I can tell you this: I went to bed and closed my eyes at 10:57 last night and it took me about another hour to claim my prize of REM. All this time I was possessed by the urge and the need to kiss and perhaps that explains the delay, maybe again it was just the goddamn hot hot heat. This morning I was awake almost an hour before my alarm was set to ring and the urge to feel lips against mine has not yet left and I have no freaking clue what to do about this.

Monday, April 15, 2013

sunshine is my ex-boyfriend

Credit where credit is due; the summer is a very high and proud summer this year indeed, oh yes, oh boy, damn straight, sure. Sweat is a method of cooling down the skin, and as well a method of toxin excretion, but not these days. Now sweat is my skin actually melting, bit by bit. From Ice Queen extraordinaire, breaking hearts left and right and eating the poems of boys for dinner and washing down the bitter taste with their tears, I shall become a puddle. Splash, splash, spite, spite. You will not dream of me, you will step in me and I will soak your shoes and the bottom bit of your pants leg.

There really is no where to run and no motivation to either (hear these words from my mouth, my meaning mine meaning me, a lover of exercise and cardio longer than my attention span). The Sun is everywhere, saying hello from 92,955,807 miles away. Hello, I am the Sun. I am here. Please don't ignore me. The Sun is whiny and clingy and desperate. The heat is smothering me. The Sun saw what we did to Pluto and got terrified of being next, terrified of being dumped, of being in the past. The 8 minute gap between us does nothing to ease the insecurities of a celestial body.

What other explanation is there? Solar flares? No. It's a sad, struggling, extension towards us, us, us. Why else is there heat in the air and heat in my water, heat in my blood, heat under my dress and blowing up my skirt, heat in classrooms and restrooms and under cold water? Either the Sun wants us so bad bad badly, or the Sun is angry because we've been craving the cold for too long. 

Snap crackle pop, this is a problem. Thinking about what exactly the Sun could be thinking is a problem-making thought process. Oh. Maybe the Sun has forgotten about us, has turned the other way, is looking around the room as we try to hold a conversation, because the Sun, oh glorious gorgeous life-giver, is bored and is waiting for someone else to show up. Maybe the Sun is lazy. Can't be damned. Cannot be assed. Can not be bothered. Oh.

Whatever the reason, it is very hot and this is me, complaining about the heat as if it's the most important thing in the world and the most important thing in my life and everyone should pay attention to me me me as I talk about the goddamn weather as if it was a personal insult against me.

Saturday, April 13, 2013

finally something else to be popping


So I am back in my dorm from Davao - Boracay and now hello Manila. I hate unpacking. Also, though I basically spent the last three days frying my skin and face and everything, I hate hate hate the heat. Muggy and humid and smogy. Someone please tell me and my lungs where all the air went and why the sun is so angry. Life without airconditioning...I need to readjust.

Sunday, April 7, 2013

It Was Love That Killed Her


It was love that killed her. Love that shoved her head underwater and held it there until her lungs held no more air and they gave up on her and she died. Love was what she last saw and it was the sound ringing in her ears, the bitter taste on her tongue and it was what filled every single bubble that escaped her lips. But it was still love, and that was beautiful.

They had met on the subway, where he was reading a newspaper and she was staring at the ceiling. Or maybe at the beach where she was sleeping and tanning in a purple bikini all alone on a beach blanket which seemed big enough to hold both her body and her soul with the sun turned up too high. Or maybe in the park, where she was sleeping on a bench. No, no, she wasn’t sleeping. She was resting. She was awake, keen to everything around her and sensing how every bit of the world was rotating around the sun at that very moment. But her eyes were closed and that is what made people think she was asleep. He had sat next to her, or she had opened her eyes at the precise moment that she may call out and say hello, introduce herself and fall in love. Ahaha, love. Had she known what would befall her, maybe she would have kept her eyes sealed shut. No, of course not. If she had known, she would have practically flown to him. Maybe she did fly to him. Fly into his heart and melt into him, seep into his veins and become the very blood that pounded through his heart. She was hot. Sizzling like asphalt on a summer day. Air bent around her with the heat of her body, or maybe with her presence. Maybe her just being there was already messing with reality. It was possible.

No, no, no I take it back. She was not hot. She was gorgeous. Beautiful. Pretty. So, so pretty. And lovely. But she was not hot. She was fragile. But there was nothing like her. And that is why, precisely why in fact, no one remembers what she looks like. We remember someone so hauntingly perfect looking that we forget who she was. I suppose she had a nose and a mouth and two eyes that looked at things, but for the life of me I cannot describe them in any way. I cannot say whether her hair was long and wavy or short like a boy’s or bright and red like fire and really that type of hair is hard to forget, but I can’t even remember any trace of it if it had been hers. Only to say that, like Italian cooking, they all mixed together to make something so horrible perfect that you wanted to die just so nothing bad could ever spoil the memory. She hated Italian food.

They would lie in bed and hold each other.

They would sit on the floor and fight.

They would huddle in clubs and do lines.

They would never talk or they would have inside jokes or they were communicating on the frequency reserved only for lovers. It was impersonal. Or it was so romantic that they were practically eating each others souls.

The boy was a boy. He was sweet. He was nice. He was a boy. There is never much to boys. They are what they are and any time they try to deviate from the norm, well, then they are no longer boys. They become friends. They become the end of jokes told at parties thrown by normal people. And the boy we are talking about now is anything but that. He was nice. He was sweet. He was just a boy who was born at the right time.

But he made her laugh. Everything made her laugh and that is what he liked about her. She liked that he thought he was the one making her smile. And that was the glue which kept them together.

They had fallen in love, as in truly in love to the point where no matter how many miles were stretched between them they would still be holding hands, under a bridge. No, not under a bridge that is so stupid. At the top of the tallest building in the city. Yes, yes, it was there. They were looking at all the people below and they realized that they hated every single one of them. And it was breathtaking love. Love that, if not so pure as theirs was, so pure that even the finest crystal meth in the world looked dirty and cheap in comparison, would inspire one to catapult off of rooftops. But then he left. And a metal bar came crashing through her chest, leaving her with a wound the shape of a heart where hers should be and no way to breathe. He had traveled to the city of The Next Life on a bus that picked him up with its windshield and he had left her with the Shattered Remains of a Life and a Dead Love.

He had done it on purpose. He had done it on purpose. He had left her on purpose.

And so she went looking for him. She went and looked all over the land, searching under every rock and behind every tree just so she could get mad at him. She searched in suburban neighborhoods, the occupants of which were doomed to live in their boring loops of lives anyway so it didn’t matter, and on top of skyscrapers. She screamed his name as she cried. She screamed his name. She screamed.

And then, as all land showed no love, no trace of him even, not even a bit, she resorted to her second plan. She would search the ocean. Search until he was found.

a silly little story i wrote back in senior year of highschool. it's posted on the sci-wing's website here.

Saturday, April 6, 2013

speaking of apology and confession

It's really kind of hilarious how easy it is to fool my parents. Oh yes mum, please buy me fruits. I've already eaten. I'm not hungry. Don't mind me just getting a second serving. Can I have some more eggs, bread, rice, cheese, peanut butter, soup, calories, calories, food food food? I'm totally better, totally fine. I love eating. Gonna go exercise. Can I have some money to go grocery shopping? I want to bake cakes.

But here is the trick: I am going to let the fruits rot and spit out the bread and throw away the eggs and I didn't really eat and I gave the cat my dinner. I'm not practicing yoga, not really. I'm locking the door to my room because I cannot be interrupted, not right now. I am stretching. I am exercising. I am studying. These moments are crucial. I need to be surrounded by four walls and alone with a reflective piece of hell, I need to see what exactly I am. I am my fingers making a closed circle around my upper arm, I am my rib cage and collarbone, I am the brave vertebrae that push out of my skin, I am hips and tendon, I am numbers. Despite what my birth certificate and online profiles claim, my real name is pronounced in inches and pounds. 

Darling father, I cried when you ordered pizza and asked me if I wanted to do more modeling jobs because I'm so anchored down by my flesh. It's pulling me underwater, despite the fact that fat is supposed to float. These tears are salty because they are bits of ocean spilling out of me. If I was a mermaid and my vocal cords worked even when submerged I would tell you that I am not better. That things are worse. That my face and bones hurt because I am angry all the time with them. Your darling little angel got sick because she wanted to be gorgeous for prom and then she got better and then she got worse. The end of this story is that she will die, not that she will be cured. She gained weight and lost control and she, I mean I, will trade her mind in bits and pieces in order to get back a firm grip on something anything oh no oh please.

Better is not fatter. Better is not a place or a smile or a goal weight. Better is not a healthy range. Better is impossible. All I've gotten out of recovery is extra flesh and people commenting on how much 'healthier I look'. This makes me want to set myself on fire. Once you see it, it being the truth about food, there is really no way to go back. Sweet, salty, sour, spicy and regret.

(But do you know what the worst part is? The icing on the cake and the cherry on top and the salt in my wounds is that I don't look sick anymore so I can't be sick anymore. What right do I have to complain about fat and to think about food and to cry when I eat so goddamn much? The answer is none, no, not at all. I should just shut my mouth and get back in control and stop whining like a little shit.)

Friday, April 5, 2013

end a sentence, begin a new paragraph

Growing up is not fun at all. 0/10, would not recommend. Hormones and hair. Our skin stretches and we learn about things like calories and basal metabolic rates and our hands expand like five-point balloons. But we drop things as if we're covered in butter. Oily. Slick. Slipping away.

If we are mosaics of memories and experiences, of secrets shared in slumber parties and reactions to trauma -- if this can be considered a formal definition of what is an I, then someone please give me a Do Not Resuscitate form and a noose, right this instant. Oh please. I'm afraid I was born without webbed fingers and the spaces between my phalanges are wide enough for everything to fall through. It's not my fault! It's genetics, it's preconditioning, it's all that goddamn butter. If our significance is found in a collection of itty bitties, then I am rapidly devaluing.

A list of what I've lost: 20/20 vision, the stuffed animals and beyblades and Kaoru doll that slept next to me for years, the ability to eat, trees to climb, years with family members (because of miles), cellphones, contests, my patience, the ability to touch people without wanting to claw my way out of my own skin, baby teeth, parents as heroes, safety nets, pets, earrings, potential, pieces of my front teeth, skin, blood, hair, bone, tears and sweat, feeling in my feet, a home, siblings and most importantly my mind (though until the autopsy, who can really say if I've lost it all). 

I do not like it. I do not like how I am not a puzzle incomplete. I do not like how I may have gained inches and pounds and knowledge and responsibilities, but I am still less of a me, compared. I have been, I say this indignantly, the realization thump-thump-thumping my heart against my brittle ribs like war drums, oh dear oh no I have been distilled. People can be complex, yes, but not at 2 in the morning when all the lights are off except for the backlights of a screen. This is when things come out to play. Not ghosts, but real live distilled grown-up people. And without my decorative armor, my bits and pieces, my hoard of memories and scents and pieces of paper, I am just. Perhaps that's why I can't write in only one journal anymore, why I have dozens of gorgeously bound blank pages hiding in stacks of novels I haven't read yet. There is no strength in these arms to lift a pen to a specific page, no, no more, just let it fall on any old paper. I give up this silly fight. Perhaps that's why I find it so hard to keep a blog, a record of myself and my life and my breaths as they circle between my lungs and the world. It's no easy task to pin something down with words and ink, and the incredible shrinking act of my who-ness doesn't help. It's hard to write about my life as if this is the 'during', the 'middle of'. Not when I don't see now as a single chapter of my book. Oh but that doesn't mean I see me as a book. I don't live a life worth writing down. I don't live at all -- I walk and breathe and go to class, oh isn't that sad? But I am a grown-up little child now with an allowance and everything. This is how I will spend my time.