You Knew I Didn't Like Stereotypes
No body told me you were sick.
When I met you, you weren't sick. At least you didn't look sick. You were pretty. You were thin. You were tall. I don't recall you being sick, though. No one ever told me you were sick.
You know how much I hate stereotypes. It was something no one could pull in front of me without myself getting pissed. I've never liked stereo types. I never understood the rumors about you being 'to thin' or 'anorexic'. I thought it was just another stereotype. No body told me you were sick.
As time progressed, you just got thinner. You shrank in my grasp it felt like. You didn't look healthy anymore. I could see your collar bone sticking out. I'd trace it, and you'd just tell me so simply, Isn't it just beautiful? and I didn't want to fight. You knew I didn't like stereotypes, so I just nodded. It wasn't beautiful though . . . but I wanted to make you feel pretty. You were pretty though, just not the same.
You started missing a lot of school, and I didn't understand. You said you felt too sick to go . . . that you'd been puking the night before. What did you have to puke up, I hadn't seen you eat anything for two weeks? Were you puking up stomach acid? Of course you were, why was I so stupid?
One day I picked you up. You had fallen asleep on the couch. I could only guess you weighed 70 pounds. 70 pounds was to little for your tall body. When you're 5'7, you should weigh more then 70 pounds. You weighed less then my nephew, almost. But soon you would, and soon you did.
I think everyone around me was worried . . . I just thought it was a phase. I thought it was a phase and it'd pass soon. But did it? No. It never passed. You just got smaller. I could count all of your ribs, and you weighed 65 pounds. I don't think your skeleton weighs that little. But you do . . . you weigh that little. You were like a rag doll now, so brittle. I was afraid someone would break you. The people int his house, they were rough. They were mean. And when you were so tiny . . . you just . . . couldn't go against any of them.
I got in a fight with your brother. Charles, I think. The bigger one. He blamed me. He said I made you so thin. That I called you fat. Did I ever call you fat, Shadow? Did I ever ask you about losing weight? I didn't even use words like fat, you knew I hated stereotypes. But I don't think you could do a thing about it. You were in bed again . . . so close to just being taken away. Thrown in a hospital, tossed into rehabilitation. You wouldn't even eat anything for your dad.
Charles, he just came up to me. Pushed me against the wall. His hand at my throat, I couldn't breathe. You didn't know though, but no body told me you were sick. You were up stairs asleep, and Charles was blaming me. He was hitting me, punching me, he was crying and cussing as my blood decorated the floor. Then he left me in a heap on the ground in pain, agony, and confusion. You weren't sick, you weren't. He was right though, I was wrong.
Finally your dad put you in the hospital. He wanted you better, but you only kept getting worse. You screamed when you saw the IV. You screamed, because they were pumping sugars and fats into your body. You yelled and tried ripping it out. They had to give you a shot in which knocked you out so you would stop fussing. I watched from the door way in shock, I was crying for the first time. No body told me you were sick.
I was rarely let in the room. You had an allergic reaction with the Holdall, the shot that knocked you out. You were now in a coma and couldn't demand to see me anymore. I think your dad liked that. He didn't like me. Neither did Charles, nor Matthew. But I liked you, and you liked me. I was stuck in the waiting room until your dad or brothers left to go get something. Then I'd sneak in. I'd hold your hand and just wait there. Wait for you to wake up. But I knew you wouldn't wake up for me, no. Not for me. You liked being knocked out, I could tell. You liked being in a coma, it was pleasing. It gave you time to think.
Before I knew it, I was dressed in all black keeling in front of a tombstone with your name sprawled across it and nice pretty flowers surrounding it. Mine were the white roses, you always loved white roses. You said they were so different and vibrant. I gave them to you on our first date. Tears were slipping down my face as I traced the smooth stone. You wanted to be cremated, but your dad wanted you buried. No one listened to me.
In my eyes, you weren't anorexic. You know how much I hate stereotypes. No body told me you were sick. But I blame myself for not noticing either. I blame myself and hold myself responsible. I could've saved you, I know it. I know I could've, but it's to late for that now. No, I could've saved you, but no one's going to save me.
You might've been to thin but now you won't be the only one.
You know how much I hate stereotypes. It was something no one could pull in front of me without myself getting pissed. I've never liked stereo types. I never understood the rumors about you being 'to thin' or 'anorexic'. I thought it was just another stereotype. No body told me you were sick.
As time progressed, you just got thinner. You shrank in my grasp it felt like. You didn't look healthy anymore. I could see your collar bone sticking out. I'd trace it, and you'd just tell me so simply, Isn't it just beautiful? and I didn't want to fight. You knew I didn't like stereotypes, so I just nodded. It wasn't beautiful though . . . but I wanted to make you feel pretty. You were pretty though, just not the same.
You started missing a lot of school, and I didn't understand. You said you felt too sick to go . . . that you'd been puking the night before. What did you have to puke up, I hadn't seen you eat anything for two weeks? Were you puking up stomach acid? Of course you were, why was I so stupid?
One day I picked you up. You had fallen asleep on the couch. I could only guess you weighed 70 pounds. 70 pounds was to little for your tall body. When you're 5'7, you should weigh more then 70 pounds. You weighed less then my nephew, almost. But soon you would, and soon you did.
I think everyone around me was worried . . . I just thought it was a phase. I thought it was a phase and it'd pass soon. But did it? No. It never passed. You just got smaller. I could count all of your ribs, and you weighed 65 pounds. I don't think your skeleton weighs that little. But you do . . . you weigh that little. You were like a rag doll now, so brittle. I was afraid someone would break you. The people int his house, they were rough. They were mean. And when you were so tiny . . . you just . . . couldn't go against any of them.
I got in a fight with your brother. Charles, I think. The bigger one. He blamed me. He said I made you so thin. That I called you fat. Did I ever call you fat, Shadow? Did I ever ask you about losing weight? I didn't even use words like fat, you knew I hated stereotypes. But I don't think you could do a thing about it. You were in bed again . . . so close to just being taken away. Thrown in a hospital, tossed into rehabilitation. You wouldn't even eat anything for your dad.
Charles, he just came up to me. Pushed me against the wall. His hand at my throat, I couldn't breathe. You didn't know though, but no body told me you were sick. You were up stairs asleep, and Charles was blaming me. He was hitting me, punching me, he was crying and cussing as my blood decorated the floor. Then he left me in a heap on the ground in pain, agony, and confusion. You weren't sick, you weren't. He was right though, I was wrong.
Finally your dad put you in the hospital. He wanted you better, but you only kept getting worse. You screamed when you saw the IV. You screamed, because they were pumping sugars and fats into your body. You yelled and tried ripping it out. They had to give you a shot in which knocked you out so you would stop fussing. I watched from the door way in shock, I was crying for the first time. No body told me you were sick.
I was rarely let in the room. You had an allergic reaction with the Holdall, the shot that knocked you out. You were now in a coma and couldn't demand to see me anymore. I think your dad liked that. He didn't like me. Neither did Charles, nor Matthew. But I liked you, and you liked me. I was stuck in the waiting room until your dad or brothers left to go get something. Then I'd sneak in. I'd hold your hand and just wait there. Wait for you to wake up. But I knew you wouldn't wake up for me, no. Not for me. You liked being knocked out, I could tell. You liked being in a coma, it was pleasing. It gave you time to think.
Before I knew it, I was dressed in all black keeling in front of a tombstone with your name sprawled across it and nice pretty flowers surrounding it. Mine were the white roses, you always loved white roses. You said they were so different and vibrant. I gave them to you on our first date. Tears were slipping down my face as I traced the smooth stone. You wanted to be cremated, but your dad wanted you buried. No one listened to me.
In my eyes, you weren't anorexic. You know how much I hate stereotypes. No body told me you were sick. But I blame myself for not noticing either. I blame myself and hold myself responsible. I could've saved you, I know it. I know I could've, but it's to late for that now. No, I could've saved you, but no one's going to save me.
You might've been to thin but now you won't be the only one.