I was trying to describe you to someone

I was trying to describe you to someone the other day. It feels unfair for me not to tell you that I never start with the physical attributes because I think it’s beautiful the way that I perceive things. I think they’re beautiful, all of the pictures I take. One time August texted me to say that it was like really seeing the world through my eyes. I hope that when I show them, everyone sees my dilated pupils from behind the camera. The gut wrenching way I hold it up, like a trophy. It’s a privilege to be proud of something so ugly. I hope they can hear the way I laughed when I took the picture, the hesitance before I took it, the way I looked at it later that night to tell you I thought you looked so handsome there. I didn’t know how beautiful you would seem when I look at it now. Still.

I was trying to describe you to someone the other day and the conversation played out like a knife fight. I was quick-witted, my temper was lost due to a sore thumb and a backbone the size of a can of sardines. I didn’t tell them about all the good stuff. A heart of gold only exists if you have the guts to try and break it. Selfishly, I wanted to keep it for myself. You can find it tucked away under a loose flap of skin, unfiltered in my spleen. If you knew the full story you would probably freak out. I’ll spare you the details. My sister has never been so angry. I used to say the sweetest things to people. I feel like these days all I know how to do is lie. If I grit my teeth hard enough anything will become a truth. Honesty is subjective and with enough of a plea in my voice eventually you start to turn some heads. Opinions switch out of my best interest because you love me if I say you do and they love me because they tell me they do. This is an interesting predicament I’ve found myself in. I am a very selfish girl with a heart like a tapeworm. I couldn’t believe myself once I found out what I’d said.

I opted out of every borderline loserish, possibly horrific scenario that could set me up for feeling the way that I did whenever I was seventeen. I found the angst in the underwire of my own flesh, the emotions that you only want to let out in front of the mirror when the sun goes down creep outside this outlandish heart and there is nothing that you can do to halt it but let yourself throw the tantrum in the middle of the store. It feels like the weight was rested on someone larger than my own body, my conscience never clear enough from the smoke I used to block it from my view. She hibernated and stayed still. I didn’t want to acknowledge that yet. I didn’t want to hear the truth yet. When she told me it hurt her just as much it was enough to make me nauseous the whole rest of the day.

I could never look at myself in the mirror and beg for respect. I would love to sit here and plead at your feet, though. Imagine the scene I’d make. Go ahead.

It felt unfair to let myself go, to hoard this disgust in all of its untouched glory to be let out on some pitiful Wednesday in June. I feel disgusting most days but there is nothing to do about that. My rage bubbles underneath me like an ulcer, sharp and unfilling and so, so mean. I wonder where I get it from. I wonder where he gets it from, too. My issue lies in thinking that nothing bad will ever happen to me if I don’t let it. Something really stupid about trying to spare details to not embarrass myself even further like how I let it all slip up one stupid Monday, or how I was far too naive to see how mean you can really be when I hand you a gift so delicately woven, put together so intricately and perfectly that you can’t argue with the man beside you about whether or not it’s worth anything in gold, and then fight with you to get you not to break it.

Tabasum tells me the love of my life will never make me this sad.

The sun is an unforgivable friend. Her rays beam hot on my back. You wouldn’t know what that feels like. The physicality of this sadness always confuses me because the infection shouldn’t be striking down everything this much. Nothing mattered to me the way it did before. I let my books and CDs collect dust and tried to count all of the mold spores on old spoons and t-shirts and parts of my body I feel too sick to pick off. I sat there with my shirt undone trying to patch up conversations the best that I could. I had never felt anything that real, sitting there laid bare. Driving on the wrong side of the road, months spent tied down in a bedroom I didn’t recognize because all of the living was spent somewhere my name isn’t even attached to. I didn’t know how to rub it off. Shaking off wet hair and slicked skin and an unbreakable confidence, I always feel like such a dog when I finally get what I want. It was an active choice to build my body back up. I spent years trying to find the soft spot in a violent heart. I spent weeks cleaning up vomit off the side of your shoes on the off chance that you would say “thank you” or “I’m sorry”. Begging for forgiveness is a sick fantasy I have, and at the end of the story you are denied. In reality it never feels as good as I want it to feel. It’s a beautiful feeling to sit here and wish for the warmth on my shoulders to blister. This always happens while I’m trying to talk about you.

I wake up from this dream and I’m crying, sitting at the end of your couch like a dog. My hair wasn’t the same color as it was then. And you don’t really look like yourself either. I didn’t know how to tell you that I knew it wasn’t real because in this world the rain wasn’t as violent as it was that morning and the color of your clothes were all wrong and I’ve lived this before and the pit wasn’t in my stomach then the same way it is now. He’s you but he isn’t you. She walks inside of your house and I walk out. I remove your hand from mine and place it on your side of the couch. Porcelain always seemed so fucking ugly to me and I think your parents have more money than they need, so I drop the bowl outside of your garage. I wished it rolled but it fell on its side and I didn’t know how to glue the pieces back together so I just didn’t. It felt like trying to manually swirl vomit around in my stomach. Did I ever tell you I finally learned how to make myself throw up? Would you feel proud if I said I did it all for you?