Status: Being hastily written.
Sick.
Fourth.
It's hard to sleep in the quiet. When you lived in the facility there was a grizzly woman in the room next to yours. She was rough and tough, and unattainably tiny. You used to listen to the thumps against your shared wall. You knew those thumps like the veiny insides of your own eyelids. Those were the thumps of inexperience, the shivers in the night. Any anorectic knew you slept with layers, everyone knew but this dumb bitch beside you.
You grew to love her in only the way an anorectic can love someone. In that way where hate mixes with the slight itch of empathy. You feel sorry for her, and you wish to hold her close, but are way too afraid to ask.
Later they found the woman, her knuckles bruised and her breath caught. And this haunted you for a bit; how close you had been. How soon you could have reached that emptiness. How soon you could have quit. How soon?
You lied about the cuts and the stitches that put them back together. You lied about your white sheets. You lied about your parents. You lied because you could, until you couldn't.
You grew to love her in only the way an anorectic can love someone. In that way where hate mixes with the slight itch of empathy. You feel sorry for her, and you wish to hold her close, but are way too afraid to ask.
Later they found the woman, her knuckles bruised and her breath caught. And this haunted you for a bit; how close you had been. How soon you could have reached that emptiness. How soon you could have quit. How soon?
You lied about the cuts and the stitches that put them back together. You lied about your white sheets. You lied about your parents. You lied because you could, until you couldn't.