some days i think

i was raped.

on those days,

half-hearted memories

try to make their presence known,

fighting their way into existence.

i lie in bed,

leaving to go eat

three more bowls of cereal.

more ice cream.

another large helping of spaghetti with sauce.

i try to convince myself feeling good again

isn't worth puking it all up.

it doesn't work.

i lie in bed, fat and bloated,

and feel some ghost's hands on me,

touching me in places that make

the little girl inside me scream...

i want to curl up in the corner in the warmth.

in safety i can never

seem to find.

i want to be safe, but some days

i play with my emotions,

triggering myself for something to feel

i can describe,

as opposed to feelings

(grey, mushy clouds)

softening my life.

i want some hard edges,

some bits of sharp metal in life to cut myself on.

not too deep,

just deep enough to feel

something other than

almost-made-up memories

breaking my trust.