Swallowing soap suds is second nature to me now. I drink the bath water until it runs cold.
I atone, I atone, I atone.
I hop out of the tub, shaking, slippery, scrubbed raw. My flesh is exposed, sinful hands wrinkled and blue.
I reach them out for you; you turn away. I have sculpted myself, for you. You wrote the blueprint, I am the clay. Why, Mother, do you not love me?
I have been taught that you love me.
But not like this, no, not like this.
Not like this, burst into pieces (i exploded in the kiln).
Not like a
pathetic worm.
groundlike little creature.
pity me, pity me.
i have so many problems.
there is so much wrong with me.
pity me, pity me.
you could not see it before,
the extent of my trauma,
how much i suffered for the stage,
so i cut myself open with glee
wrenched out my insides
so they hang out for everyone to see.
and they are all looking
Directly at me. Ten thousand crows in Dead Crow Tree. If I scare them, what would it do? Their nests are here, their home is here. I trespass on their grounds. It’s my fault their eyes unsettle me, my fault their swooping makes me cower, my fault I’m here at all.
And now.
Now, they’re all looking at us. This dress is made of glass, and if I breathe too deeply, it will break. It’s a masquerade, but even with a mask, they can clearly see.
They knew before, I suppose. I can hear the cawing knock against my windows on a dewy morning. But this is proof.
I may be glass, but you are stone, and it terrifies me.
I could kill you. Sink the blade in nice and deep, angled up underneath your breast, providing a feast for the crows. But could I watch as they devoured your carcass? Smile and laugh and share a meal with the beasts? I would become one. A beast. But that is the point. The masquerade of
Womanhood requires deception.
When I sleep, I am ugly. This is because I am not thinking about being pretty. When I wake, the camera turns on. I think I would go insane without a mirror, but I am not vain.
I am humble, and pretty. I have no breasts, but my waist makes up for it. I don’t eat, but I eat healthy. I am ideal, but I am ill. I take care of myself and I do everything and I die.
Womanhood requires manhood.
There is a man in my head. He looks at the mirror. I do not. He wants me to be perfect. I want myself to be sick.
If I am sick, then I can justify this. I can justify this body. I can tell people I can’t drink coffee because I get heart palpitations, when the heart palpitations are not caused by coffee. This behaviour is explainable, I swear. I act this way because I have anxiety. I act this way because I’m neurodivergent. I act this way because I’m not a woman. I wouldn’t know if they were truth or lies.
This is how I apologize to him. I feed him excuses until he feels bad for criticising me. Can’t you see I’m sick? That’s why I’m repulsive. It would be so much easier if I wasn’t afraid of vomiting. It would be simple. A sin, and then a cleansing. For now, I settle for this.
If it’s not pleasing me, at least it’s pleasing the man. I am so desperate to feel good that I break my back bending over for it. I need a bit of pleasure
with my pain
so i don’t kill myself entirely.
this is how i atone.
this is how i apologize to him.
this is how i repent.
i stand at the wall with a tissue in my hand
for five minutes
unable to squish the tiny helpless unmoving spider.
it’s hysterical of you to think
that i could ever hurt myself
in a way that didn’t feel good.
i want you to call me names, slap me, choke me, kill me,
because i cannot do it myself.
oh, please, be the death of me
it would be so sweet
to contrast my cruelty.
i tell myself i have reached the end of my tether;
perhaps i am just tired of pretending
i don’t like lashing out.
i revel in her tears
because her face looks like mine.
i should start believing in God
so that He has time to forgive me for everything i’ve done
and everything that i will ever do
before it is too late.
these words need their tongues mutilated.
every letter
prompts the return to the soil.