Slutty, broken, shameful. These words follow the dim light that
swallows me nightly. I'm offered a pseudo-sympathy from my worn childhood
teddy bear. Worn, torn, reborn. It understands our joint de-virginity. It
doesn't scold me as I curl up on my bed and hope to die softly, slowly,
reasonably. It knows it will all fade when morning comes, when I'm greeted
with sunlight and voices and passion. If they come at all.
I close my eyes as slightly as I can without the glow of night leaving my eyes. Snow blankets the ground and allows an orange-y radiance through my window. It is a slight comfort. It reminds me of vacationing and fruits and sales. These are normal, healthy, loving things. The bitter un- reality of reality.
I open my eyes again. There is no point in closing them. I get up, abandoning the teddy bear for the mirror, like I did years ago. I turn on the light. The grayness of my skin does not go away with the darkness.
Violet is carved under my eyes. The long blonde hair that surrounds my blank expression sticks in all directions, waiting, yearning, wanting my hairbrush. My lips are chapped. My features are mouse-like. I'm a sickly doll and a prostitute and scared, just scared. Black eyeliner cakes the eyelashes everyone adores. Dried mascara rivers are left unwashed on my caved in cheeks. I look essentially like a heroin addict. I turn off the light and climb back into bed, suddenly weary.
The ceiling is blank and welcoming. I pull the teddy back into my arms and let it stare with me. We are put the same person now.
The whispers are staying with me. I hear them with Paige Michalchuk's amused smile. Whispers, rumors, lies. Funny how they seem so true. I believe sometimes. But I learned a long time ago, believing isn't a good idea. Believing at all.
Waking is rushing closer. My alarm clock reads 6:32 AM. It is so harsh, unforgiving, unsympathetic. I knock it over by-accident-on-purpose. It goes off. I get up.
The bathroom tile is cold on my feet. Different mirror, same reflection. I wash away the mascara. It goes running down the drain and my mind follows it, robotically doing the routine. I am beautiful again, hair brushed and blonde, cover-up covering, lips coated in cherry. I'm ready to smile again. I'm innocent in the skankiest way. I'm reluctant. I hate this. I hate life. I just want to curl up in the dark again, try sleeping, try dreaming. I kick and scream and hate on the inside.
Then I stick a stick of peppermint gum in my mouth and go to school.
I close my eyes as slightly as I can without the glow of night leaving my eyes. Snow blankets the ground and allows an orange-y radiance through my window. It is a slight comfort. It reminds me of vacationing and fruits and sales. These are normal, healthy, loving things. The bitter un- reality of reality.
I open my eyes again. There is no point in closing them. I get up, abandoning the teddy bear for the mirror, like I did years ago. I turn on the light. The grayness of my skin does not go away with the darkness.
Violet is carved under my eyes. The long blonde hair that surrounds my blank expression sticks in all directions, waiting, yearning, wanting my hairbrush. My lips are chapped. My features are mouse-like. I'm a sickly doll and a prostitute and scared, just scared. Black eyeliner cakes the eyelashes everyone adores. Dried mascara rivers are left unwashed on my caved in cheeks. I look essentially like a heroin addict. I turn off the light and climb back into bed, suddenly weary.
The ceiling is blank and welcoming. I pull the teddy back into my arms and let it stare with me. We are put the same person now.
The whispers are staying with me. I hear them with Paige Michalchuk's amused smile. Whispers, rumors, lies. Funny how they seem so true. I believe sometimes. But I learned a long time ago, believing isn't a good idea. Believing at all.
Waking is rushing closer. My alarm clock reads 6:32 AM. It is so harsh, unforgiving, unsympathetic. I knock it over by-accident-on-purpose. It goes off. I get up.
The bathroom tile is cold on my feet. Different mirror, same reflection. I wash away the mascara. It goes running down the drain and my mind follows it, robotically doing the routine. I am beautiful again, hair brushed and blonde, cover-up covering, lips coated in cherry. I'm ready to smile again. I'm innocent in the skankiest way. I'm reluctant. I hate this. I hate life. I just want to curl up in the dark again, try sleeping, try dreaming. I kick and scream and hate on the inside.
Then I stick a stick of peppermint gum in my mouth and go to school.