my baby is having surgery. D:

She is sure that there is more to life than making friends and going to school, sitting with her legs crossed and letting her mother further curl her curly hair every morning. She won’t eat meat or dairy and she won’t eat beans, so her skin slowly turns yellow. Her freckles fade from red to brown and the hair on her body that used to be dark is gilded by constant sun as she rampages through the neighborhood. She has long limbs for jumping fences and climbing trees, with long toes that help her keep balance on slimy rocks in the creek by her house.
She is a wild thing with the temper of a hornet, smoking her mother’s cigarettes and kissing boys and girls that she has captured in her tiny warrior’s games. She spits on bugs and gets stung quite a bit because of it, but doesn’t flinch when it happens.
Her father doesn’t come home one night, or the night after that, or the night after that. She doesn’t cry. She doesn’t even ask her mother what’s happened. She doesn’t speak at all, but runs into the woods as fast as she can and climbs the tallest tree she can find. She scrapes up her arms and legs climbing so carelessly, but it doesn’t matter, she wants to be as close to the sky as possible. When she gets too close, the moon reaches out a thin white arm and pushes her off of the limb she’s perched upon, and the girl plummets to the ground.
Her hands are broken, every single bone. She is near death, but only briefly. A dove swoops down like a shooting star with a single berry held in it’s beak. It lands next to the girl’s head and chirrups sweetly, “You have fallen hard, but I can free you from this pain. Out here, I’m the only one who can save you… no one else will find you for hours or days or weeks, and by then your hands will be unsalvageable. No one else will know what has happened as long as you just eat this berry and leave.”
Without a word, the girl opens her lips and wrestles the berry down her throat with her tongue. It tastes like the nectar of an agave cactus, and the juice runs down both sides of her mouth, dripping off of her chin. The following sensations overwhelm her all at once, like fainting, kissing, running, and coming. Her head spins and she falls asleep, but wakes up quickly and leaves the woods.
She arises the next morning with a terrible migraine and the taste of ash on her tongue. She sucks on her lips and teeth, trying to get that taste back. She feels empty, emotionless. Her eyes seem as hollow as her skull. She runs back to the woods, slower this time. A crow’s cawing greets her. She climbs up the tallest tree she can find—and jumps.

son of a motherfucking bitch.

Purged. Fuck fuck fuck fuck!!!

I have lost weight. I am eating less. I am more physically active. I feel like these are such bittersweet blessings, because I could certainly run with it, but I am choosing to stick to my guns and stand my ground. This is what power means, knowing that you could get what you want, but doing what you need.

redefinition and transmutation are the reasons for my existence.

I'm fading, aren't I? This is what it feels like to be forgotten.

She moves in a disguised dance with the taste of clean--which is no taste at all--on her tongue. Improvised conversations and gestures leave her body in swift rushes while she feels her heart beating twice the speed of a hummingbird's wings. Her mouth empties itself in wafts of smoke and breath. Her name is Ramsey, and she is only nineteen years old. She chants to herself, "breathe breathe breathe. in out in out." She has limbs pale as clouds on days of dry heat and lips painted the color of red clay earth shaped in a soft heart, with a small gap between the top and bottom lip in the very middle where her yellowed teeth tend to peak out. Those teeth are straight, but discolored by excessive contact with tobacco.


BLAH BLAH BLAH SAME OLD SHIT.

asdfghjkl;'
';lkjhgfds

for real.

First uses during the past two days:
-public bus
-taxi
-emergency contraception

bloody hell. BLOODY HELL.

what the fuck am I doing?

Dear Babies,

You know I couldn't hurt you if I tried. There isn't a single fiber in my body that makes me wish ill upon you. Who knows what it would even take for me to speak those words I cannot speak, to feel those emotions I cannot feel. I can still taste you on my lips, in between my teeth like gritty earth stuck beneath the very tips of my fingernails. I am the watery glue that you wear like a second skin, like the flimsiest of armors. I am the thread which has been stitched between both ends of your wound, and why would you use me to sew things shut? Why not break me, just to see if you can spread the world wider at the ends? I want to give you the best of me, the parts I've yet to break and just maybe the parts I already have. Maybe you can salvage this broken spirit I have inside my pupae. I'm no pretty thing to look at, and I never will be. Heaven forbid, please, that I lose my substance. Sometimes you have me wondering, sometimes wishing I could shave off all of my hair just to start over. But I've heard it time and time again: you repeat your mistakes until you learn to fix them. In the end, the question is more what wouldn't I do... for you?

p.s. Why do I bother writing these vague letters when no one really cares? They accomplish nothing.

Here's something I wrote in my journal today:

I have these
wounds

I've sewn them up
but I've also
torn them open again

they don't seem to
want to heal

but they need to

and soon
because

I'm losing life
and my heart it
infected

maybe someday
they will finally
close up

I feel that
I can't avoid
the scars

but even scars will
face

it's just the
memories
I will be left
with that

may never fade
at all

and maybe that's
enough


I've been coming to terms with a lot of things lately, and life is going to get better--I know it will. God is there for me. I know that God always will be. I've been saved from so much pain, so much suffering, and it's no gift. I've worked hard for my own salvation, but it's God that's given me the chance to earn it, I know. Maybe this is the time to break my fall and avoid hitting the bottom of the pit I began to fall into many moons ago. I'm no saint, and I never will be. I am kind as much as I care to be, and because I care so much, that's quite a bit. I'm not vain, and I never will be. A little vanity doesn't hurt, but it's just one of those things that I lack. One day I will be confident, and today is a great starting point to work my way up to that. It's a beautiful day, still dark and quiet. Soon the birds will wake.

I've been struggling with my symptoms. It's a problem, which I fully intended to remedy, and immediately. No more will I be a slave to my own destruction. I am a survivor, and I will walk through this just as I have walked through my battles before. This is a time for peaceful resistance, not brute strength. There is a middle ground, and I will find it.

I will never forget any of you. I will wear you on my sleeve, proudly and with dignity serving as my guide. I will express every bit of my joy as if it is the crux of my center itself. Happiness is only a laugh away from me, and I will find it by any means.

It seems I am always on the verge of tears these days. I hope life will always be this meaningful.