crash&burn.

"Why is this happening again?" Dad asks.

"I don't know," I say. I'm curled, fetal, unexposed, but I feel raw and red all over.

"You know."

"I don't," I say, tears streaming down my cheeks.

"You do."

"No...I don't know. I wish I had a reason for you." Snot, tears. Anger, betrayl, sadness. I ruin everything.

I forgot what this was about. I forgot so long ago. If it was about weight loss, control, obsession, addiction, punishment, self-destruction...I don't know anymore.

I want to scream. ARE YOU FUCKING BLIND? IT TOOK YOU THIS LONG TO REALLY REALIZE? IT'S BEEN ALMOST A YEAR SINCE IT STARTED AGAIN. HOW DO YOU NOT FUCKING NOTICE WITH YOUR RECOVERING ANOREXIC/BULIMIC DAUGHTER LOSES FORTY POUNDS? HOW DO YOU NOT NOTICE? DO YOU NOT SEE ME? HAVE YOU NOT SEEN HOW I EAT? 27 CHEWS, EACH BITE SMALLER THAN TWO FRONT TEETH, DRINK IN BETWEEN, ONLY CERTAIN SPOONS, FOOD CAN'T TOUCH. HAVE YOU SEEN ME SHAKING AND FELT MY COLD HANDS?

When I press into my skin, over and over, and I gape open, it's like my skin is just a costume. I tore the fabric, and any moment I could just slide my skin off and I could be whoever I really am. The person I really am is hiding. My skin is just a costume, and anytime I want I could just take this costume off and put on a new one and be OKAY.

Usually it's one or two, short and deep into me, but this time it's many, all cut through the flesh so I can move the skin and see the layer below sliding. First, it's one. But then I need two more because 2 + 1 = 3 and 3 is good. But then I'm not done so I do one more but 4 is not good so I need two more after that. Then 6 but 6 is my least favorite multiple of three. So I go to 9, I like nine, 3x3, but if I'm there I might as well get to twelve and twelve is good because it's 12 and 1+2 = 3. More and more and more until the floor is covered in blood, thin drops and thick, clotted bits. When I'm cutting, I see the blood and I see the chunks of me coming off and being taken away but it doesn't connect that it's me, that I've done this. It couldn't have been me, it was someone else. Oh, please, let it be someone else.

I wish someone loved me. I wish that someone would really love me, not just love me when I'm happy and leave me when I get too sad. I wish someone were brave enough to come in when my hands are down my throat, to stop me. I wish someone were strong enough to still want to hold me when I'm bloody and crying. But I feel bad for wanting. I feel bad for having wants, for having needs. Wanting someone to help me makes me feel attention seeking. Like I did this for someone else. YOU DUMB BITCH.