Copycat.

I’m not sure if time speeds up or slows down when we try to see our reflections in cracked mirrors.
I just know it feels familiar.
Like toxicity or death, you mourn and starve yourself and listen to the wind in the trees.
And then you begin again.
The beginning, the starting over is where you swallow water, where you struggle to  swim.
But what can you do when one of you moves on to glass, while the other stays at the mirror?
Nothing.
Wait for the sun to go down, the leaves to change.
And remember when my family was larger.
Drink.
Walk.
Forget.

Unfinished. Thought Process.

Don’t save me.
Process.
Save yourself.
“ME” is said enough times throughout the day.
As is “I” and “MINE”.
So it should be easy.
Victimization comes in more forms than all your books and projects could predict and decipher.
“Don’t give up on peace and love”, the song plays in the background.
I won’t.
Will you?
Wasn’t that the logo of your era, your being?
Are there not enough verbal bumper stickers you’ve spouted?

Unanswered

I want you.
The rise and fall of your rib cage, breathing heavily while you slumber.
Your lips are resting, their curvature enticing me to come over and taste them.
I watch you sleep, wondering what would happen if I touched you secretly, knowing you might push me away.
Still the longing exists because the craving has not been fulfilled and my memories are merging with my reality, causing daydreams of the most erotic content.
You did want me at one time.
Your skilled hands grasping my breasts, your teeth clenching down on the apex of my nipple, bruising me, discoloring me.
When did “want” cease to exist?

Simple Girl

I am not a simple girl.
20 year old varicose veins and freshly inflamed cat scratches adorn my legs in place of scars on my legs from climbing trees and tan lines from cutoff jean shorts.
They float around, teetering in their high heels, smelling of freshly tanned skin.
I, on the other hand, need extra deodorant and have cuts in my heels from walking barefoot on the gravel in summer…..and winter.
They seem to have it soooooo easy, coasting through life, barely doing the minimum, getting by on their good looks and Daddy’s paycheck.
But for them, it’s the maximum.
I would rather drown myself in documentaries of serial killers, incense smoke, and thrift store finds instead of baseball games, Budweiser, and Hollister hoodies.
We smile at each other as we pass down the street then we talk behind each other’s backs.

Reference Book

Familiar words have brainwashed me and I still know I have much yet to learn.
How to let go.
How to hold on.
How to let my tears be wiped away-or not NEED to fall.
We are children embracing and embarking on play-dates and precipices.
Emotional abuse has written our joint novel, the one we keep on the shelf to collect dust, purely for show.
Let me rewrite your story.
Let me add in sunsets and making love.
Let me dictate the forgotten language of trust that your story should be written in.
Maybe when I learn how to love without receiving I’ll have someone write all they have learned about me, about us.
We’ll start our own library, full of reference books to share.

The Index Card Diaries: Entry 30

I see the hairs poking through, the new layer of fat in my feet.  They’re a size 11 now.  Back fat.  Stretch marks.  Frizzy hair.  Loosened neck skin.  And I’m trying to do it right.  But the self hatred sticks out more than any of those other things do.

The Index Card Diaries: Entry 29

I feel the unneeded, unwanted desperation setting in again.  I so want to please you that I revert back to the 13 year old girl just waiting to be kissed and letting my daily monsters take cruel advantage of me.
Do we ever really grow up?