I don’t eat until I can damn near pull my stomach around my spine. Until I can wrap my fingers around every part of my body without stretching them – my arms and waist and shoulders so close I don’t exist. I think about being able to fit into crevices, into beautiful gowns, into the minds of men that love me.
I don’t eat until my bones sound like pretzels, aching for sustenance, screaming for help. Until my teeth feel like gravel, grating against my tongue, screaming for nourishment.
I don’t eat and everything feels like progress. Everything feels like an ache in the right direction.
I just want to shrink.
“We have to talk about this, it’s getting out of hand…”
She flipped her hair back, lip yanked up like she’d caught a hook, and scoffed.
“Who told you we have to do anything, Eddie? I’m out here doing whatever the fuck suits me. Try it.” I didn’t have time to blink before she switched off, one long nail flipping me the bird, loud laughter trailing behind her like a scent. Everyone watched me with a type of interest I’ll never get used to, that I’ll never appreciate. She brought it everywhere she went and I just couldn’t get rid of it.
I looked at my keyed car, hardly able to read the words ‘I hope the bitch was worth it’ etched messily into the blue paint. You could still see the ‘pick up your phone BITCH‘ barely hidden under a quick paint job from the previous week.
‘This is a love I will not get used to’, I think for the tenth time in eight years.
Some people don’t exist.
I’m only really here when words are coming out of my mouth, flying from my hands, or flowing through my head. Everything else is just imagination. Everything else is just practice for what I’ll write later.
Some people don’t exist.
I’m only really vibrant when I’m telling you what happened, why it happened, how it happened, and where you can go to experience it. I’m nothing but a barrel of experiences that neither of us has really been through, written in a way that makes both of us feel whole.
Writer’s block is a cruel thing.
I soak people. Stay around them long enough to get the best parts, to adopt the laughs, the smells, the personalities. I soak them up and then, slowly, I leak them out.
I become them, but a better version of them. All the parts of them that make them stand out in a crowd. All the parts of them that build a following, that people swoon over. I leave them with the bad, let them sit in their miseries and fears, and I become something greater. Even THEY can’t be this.
They can’t sit around cramping my style after that, so I let them go and find another personality to suction.
Say what you will – the process hasn’t failed me yet.