Tangled.

You asked for it, you fool. You asked, and you received, so it’s your own fault that you curl into yourself as you struggle to fall asleep, the glow of the TV pale blue.

“I want you inside me.” These words, not about you, not about you at all, tumble in your brain at any given moment–while you’re sitting in your car on a chilly evening, as the sun sets and makes the clouds golden, while you smoke your third cigarette, while you walk to class in amidst the pitter-patter of rain. These words, those words, you just can’t get out of your head. You see them in bright red letters, you feel them slap you across the face.

And when she asks you to hit her, you wonder if you do it because she asks or because there’s a part of you that actually wants to, that wants to make her sting, make her skin turn bright red, bright red like the muscle of your tangled heart.

You get drunk, more drunk than you need to be, and when the situation is brought up you do your best to smile behind your cigarette, take another sip of your gin and tonic, pretend like it doesn’t bother you, because at the end of the day, there’s nothing you can do.

But you sit there with your drink, and your cigarette, and your people, and those words get tangled on your tongue.

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There Is No Right Answer.

I can’t help but stare at the girl, no, young woman, who sits across from me in LAB 207. Her hair is artificially white-blonde and always pulled back in a severe bun, her face is makeup-free except for some mascara. Her eyes are so green. Her face has a bone structure that I can only envy, with a painfully perfect nose, narrow and sharp, that sits above her lips. They’re not full and luscious but neither are they thin and lifeless. They’re stained red. Her cheekbones are ferocious, cutting the sides of her face. Her arms, mostly covered by the sleeves of her blazer, are covered in multicolor tattoos.

I can only hope that she knows how disgustingly beautiful she is.

I smoked too much today. The total comes to eight. I’ve had worse days. I’ve had better. But for today, it’s too much.

No matter where I turn, I am trapped in a corner. There are no trails free of giant roadblocks. There are no right decisions. I consider giving up, and by giving up, I mean…

What do I mean?

Every breath feels like a waste, and like a struggle. Every joint in my body aches with pain, throbs with discomfort. My knees buckle when I crouch, they crumble when I stand. The arches of my feet flatten on the ground and the sensation of two giant needles shooting up through my heels and my calves alarms me. My neck feels permanently bent in a twisted way, my back aches. I have no coordination and I bump into things, jabbing myself in the thigh, in the upper arm, in the side.

I can no longer sleep without the TV on.

I wonder what that young woman is doing right now. Has she unraveled her hair from its prison? Has she changed from her formal attire into sweatpants, wiped the mascara from her lashes, tossed her high heels into a cluttered closet?

Does anyone think about me?

 

And So I Lament

about being the way I am, the person who avoids all eye contact, the person who sweats too easily. I lament about being too early to every social event, class I begrudgingly signed up for, every doctor’s appointment, every shift at my minimum wage, back-breaking job.

I lament about being unlucky, because I am, and that’s always the way it’s been. I got the absolute worst set of genetics: prone to cavities, abnormally long feet, a female body that gains weight in the midsection and face but not the ass or breasts, bipolar disorder and severe anxiety, prone to cravings of sweets, no bone structure, acne, ear infections, flat feet. The list is neverending. I’m unlucky when it comes to jobs, cars, relationships…

I suppose I should lament about that time when I thought I was looking pretty good, but instead of this seemingly already-drunk man approaching me, he approached my friend, who, even with her bare face and ripped jeans, I cannot compare to. I suppose I should lament about how my best friend wants to fuck my other best friend, and they probably will, even though I’ve loved him for two years and if anyone should be fucking him, it should be me.

But even with all this, and more, I suppose I am lucky sometimes. I was lucky when I, for the second time in six years of driving, got pulled over for running a red light, and after glancing at my license and my registration, the officer merely told me to be careful and sent me on my way. I’m lucky in that I only get sick once a year. I have an amazing capacity for love. I’m really good at making mix tapes. And somehow I am always able to afford my cigarette habit.

I lament because I am an unlucky, cursed, fucked, twisted son of a bitch.