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birdie’s started cutting herself again. like she was when we met, five years ago. she can’t do it right when she means to. she can only hurt herself on accident. on purpose she never gets through the skin. always grabs the dullest knife, subconsciously. i have never cut. it’s too public. that’s what lands our friends in asylums. “Hospitals.” white room after white room. my nightmares are always in white. outside the sunlight feels like flames. purging. i want to light myself on fire and burn. i have too much flesh. i feel like a whore, encumbered by it. i want to be all bone. i perch over the heating ducts and imagine i’m in flames. this is the winter of my twentieth year. they said it would go away by now. last night i dreamed that damiana loved me again. she hated me, but she loved me anyway. we sat and howled at the moon. she was coy, like always. i thought i loved hemlock more, but i find i was mistaken. i found a miniature shopping cart. i want to saw it apart and turn it into a buggy. put a little butterfly-winged barbie in the seat. dye her hair violet. send it to hemlock with a note that says, “all dressed up with nowhere to go.” he’d know what i meant. but i can’t. i hate him. i want to tell damiana i realized i’m in love with her, but i can’t. she hates me. i think i hate her too. i’m new to this hate thing. i’ve never done it before. at first it was hard, but now i’m having fun with it. my mother and my new-boyfriend-who-already-doesn’t-love-me-anymore are good at supplying little mean things i can do to them. “Feeble,” says my mother. “Assholes,” says the boyfriend. “They’re perfect for each other.” “You should write her another email.” there’s so much support here. i can feel it holding me together. |