these bones are on loan.

it’s so hard for me to stay positive when i’m so lonely.

The inconsolable surge of blood runs down my face.  All air has completely evacuated my lungs, leaving me empty of life, empty of feeling.  I look up and see his face; there’s rage in his eyes like I’ve seen too many times.

            The next morning is considerably worse than the previous night; everyone eating around the table won’t stop staring at my face.  A disgusting black, blue death pours from my eyes seeping into the surrounding tissue.  The dried blood is like my war paint and this makes me want to leave it for as long as possible.  My mother blankly looks into my eyes only to shake her head in despair, confusion, and disappointment.  I don’t understand how she can be so outright with her obvious hatred of her only child.  She scares me more than any monster could; actually, I think she is the real monster.  She never stops him from attacking me, from demoralizing our family; she never cares that her own father was the sole person who caused me physical pain for so many years.  She tells me I need to clean myself up and be presentable for once. 

Fuck her.  Fuck her.  Fuck her. 

I slowly walk towards our small, disgusting bathroom and lock the door behind me.

            The bathroom is a putrid sea-foam kind of green with coral trim.  After years of use, the previous paint is starting to come through; the once simply green walls were now a color that could only be used to describe vomit.  All of the fixtures were gold but the majority of the gold had worn off and now was greasy silver.  I look in the dingy mirror and begin to scrape off my more than welcome war paint off.  My face is covered in dark, bloody bruises, nearly to the point of my eyes swelling shut; however, I am lucky.  My face withstood my grandfather’s beatings for a number of years with no real or noticeable damage.  It may have been bloodied and bruised, but never broken.

            Blood had poured onto my bright white shirt leaving rust colored stains.  I opened my mouth and looked inside to assess the damage; one tooth was slightly chipped, my tongue had an insurmountable gash and my gums were riddled with an ever oozing blood.  Looking at the tarnished, oversized clock directly above the toilet, I realized how late into the day it was.  I needed to leave now. Get me the fuck out of here.

            I walked into my room, the only room in the entire house with a hole in the ceiling.  Water constantly dripped down onto my belongings.  Animals even come in sometimes.  The carpet was a musty maroon-brown mangle of matted material with areas that had been ripped up by one of the cats.  The walls, which I had just recently painted, were a bright, electric blue with drawings covering nearly every wall.  I tried to hide these drawings from my family but obviously, I didn’t try that hard.  My clothes were scattered all over everything, unable to tell what was clean or dirty; it didn’t matter much to me anyways.  My favorite shirt, an old, ripped up treasure, was being turned into to a bed by one of my many cats.  I quickly grabbed the shirt from underneath him.  He hissed, arched his back and ran away.  His fur looked as if it was beginning to fall out due to his excessive bathing.  He was, by far, my least favorite cat we had ever had.  As he ran out, something caught my eye.  A wrinkled, tattered twenty dollar bill was lying in the very corner of my room; what the hell?  I couldn’t begin to fathom that someone had purposely left this for me since everything I got was previously owned by someone else.  Quickly I grabbed the money and bolted for the front door so as to not risk the chance of someone asking about their missing money.  As the down slammed behind me, I began to run, maybe even sprint, to the corner market. 

            “Can I get two packs of Camel Wides please?”  The short, stocky man had been working at the market for what my mother has told to be at least fifteen years, and not once had she seen him smile.  I longed to know what hid underneath his balding skull and what thoughts possessed him to be so guilt stricken.  I remember hearing him talking to my mother many years ago about how this town was getting worse and worse, more people of value were leaving while people he considered “useless and time-consuming” piled into the tiny one-story houses.  After leaving, my mother told me not to talk to him unless I absolutely had too, but this was by no means to be confused with being rude; about all else, being polite was most important.  Her logic was complete bullshit based on how she treated those within her own family.  Everything was simply a lie; everything everyone else saw was a stupid fucking show she put on to make us seem normal.  However, I was surround by hundreds more women exactly like her, afraid of showing they’re true colors. 

            He hobbled to the wall where the multitude of different brands and varieties of cigarettes were lined up and then slowly retrieved my request.  “Eleven seventy-four,” he said with so much disdain that I almost didn’t realize he was talking to me.  Graciously, I handed him the wrinkled bill; he looked at me with questioning eyes but said nothing, just handed me my change.  I walked out of the rickety market and quickly got a cigarette and lit it, instantly feeling some sort of relief.  I inhaled and exhaled in a rhythm that only felt as awkward as I was making it.  I watched the smoke pour of my nose and mouth in a hypnotic state.  It swirled and danced and then disappeared only long enough for me to be greeted by more of its kind.  I looked down at my hands which momentarily knocked me out of hypnosis.  There were cracks from my skin being so dry and overworked, my nails were jagged and torn, and my knuckles looked swollen.  I could see every engraving on my palm, each of which meant a different obscure reference to the future and a different outcome in my life.

            My eyes once again drifted and caught the attention of my shoe ever-so lightly hitting the pavement in a reluctant rhythm of some shitty song.  The concrete ground was rough, old and cracked beyond repair; gum and cigarette butts lined every crevasse.  Idiotic names and signs were painted along the pavement and up onto the side of the market behind me.  The people were worn, sadistic and hopeless.  The houses were losing their charm much like my own and no one really seemed to care enough to do anything about it.  This was no longer the place where I grew up but now, somewhere much worse and much shittier.

I wish when my mom
and stepdad spoke to each other they didn’t contantly scream. note that this is regardless of fighting or not; they always screamtalk. also note that our bedrooms are against each other and the headboards of our beds face each other. I hate living here. the only time I feel comfortable here is when I’m by myself and know exactly what time they’ll be returning. I need to get away from here and this incessant talking. hey guys, contant talking isn’t necessarily communicationg and especially not for you two. YOU CAN JUST SIT WITH EACH OTHER AND NOT SPEAK FOR FIVE FUCKING MINUTES WHEN I’M TRYING TO SLEEP. STOP SCREAMING.

i will be your girl, your girl, your girl.

i absolutely hate the feeling of holding back tears. nothing could make me feel more weak than needing to cry but not letting myself for whatever reasons.
i’m tired of feeling like i’m failing.

days like today make me realize how truly lucky and happy i am.  they make me realize how much i owe to other people because i’m clearly not capable of taking care of myself, even in the most simple of ways.  i’m like a small child scared of everything around me, not touching anything for fear of it breaking. 

make my words worth something. 

fucking hypocrite.