Author: Diatom PM
Last year I begged you all for help and you let me down. But you knew, you actually KNEW, and you still won't let me forget it. tw: hints at self harm, anorexia and bulimia, and suicideRated: Fiction T - English - Angst/Crime - Words: 466 - Favs: 1 - Published: 02-12-13 - Status: Complete - id: 3100515
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Of course, like any good soldier, I want that red medal.
Sink it in my foggy skin before you throw me in the oven to roast.
Are you daft or afraid?
If you honestly didn't pick up
guess what, bitch?
I've written three notes,
didn't use the form you taught me
I wasn't sure how to frame it, see-
is it a business letter or a friendly one?
Is my death just inevitable work that must be done, or are you asking about my winter vacation?
is it an essay? Is it a poem? Is it perfect? Will I get an A, ma'am?
I talk of death and scars and skipped lunches.
Is this what you signed?
I think we should study a Wrinkle in Time,
It could be, would be, please be,
a valuable lesson to you
"this month I wrote about: a girl who hears voices, a man who drinks
cranberry vodkas on his way to the train station,
a girl exactly my age who purges and starves and slices and
and monsters who steal you in the night."
"January, now, and I've been inspired by the holiday season! This month
I wrote about a man with no arms and legs who falls onto a snowbank and
dies cold and alone with nobody to warm his heart up,
snowflakes that fall on pretty black eyelashes in the gorgeous French countryside
but the girl does not breathe so cannot enjoy them nor swipe them away,
and a girl quite similar to me who slits her own wrists in the pitch black bathroom but it isn't sad
because she is free of these demons who have stolen her away for
FAR TOO LONG"
"THIS MONTH IS THE MONTH OF MARCH AND I AM GOING TO WRITE
A SUICIDE NOTE-
NO, IT'S NOT FOR ME.
it's only for practice. "
I fold note number four until it is the size of my thumb and
I let it drift away in the gutter.
I cry, cry,
and sip cranberry vodka as I prepare to leave
at three in the morning
to the train intersection.
and he, the most beautiful,
divine creature to ever fall
into anyone's life-
he cries and begs and pleads
and I break down over
the junk food wrappers that made up my last supper,
"APRIL 4TH WILL BE THE DAY!"
it hasn't happened.
I'm still a weak, scared, insignificant lump
but I'm different, too
I'm medicated and alone
and stuck inside myself again
I am no longer as sick as I was
but I am a different sort
I AM NOT HUMAN.
Or am I finally becoming one?