Skin and Bones

I lie on my bed and stare up at the ceiling. It’s about 5 am, and the sun is slowly peeking up from over the horizon – bringing a soft, orange-like glow into my room.

My mom is sleeping in her room. She got home several hours ago.
She didn’t touch me – she hasn’t since Friday. Even though she should. I’ve gone against her word – again. I deserve to be beaten. I deserve to have her harsh hand meet my disgusting, repulsive body.
I deserve to have some sense knocked into me.
Everyone would disagree with me, I know, but they don’t understand. I never do anything right. All I do is wrong. The only right thing I’m able to do is learn from my wounds. The only right thing I can do is touch my wound and feel pain – real pain.

I place a hand softly on the right side of lower my chest.
I wince.
And then I feel better – I feel a pain. And I’m supposed to feel this pain, so I must be doing it right.

The lines of sun are slowly moving across my white, cracked ceiling.
I’m supposed to feel comforted by the light – feel warm and safe – but all I feel is cold.
I close my eyes.
I can’t even feel right.
I see Gerard’s face behind my eyelids, and my stomach turns. It feels uncomfortable – almost nauseating.

I can’t feel right. I’m supposed to feel butterflies in my stomach and tickles all over my body, but all I feel is a heavy, uncomfortable feeling resting on top of my stomach – pressing against my throat.
I can’t even feel right.

I press my hand a little harder against my chest and wince.
Then I smile.
This feels right.