This was written after my ex ran me through the wringer a few good times.


"Her insides must be torn. She imagines that all those vital organs should be black and blistered, the purple-blue shades of a bruise. But she knows it’s different now – knows there’s layers of pink against the decay; a fresh start. It’s like learning how to breathe after years of suffocation. She simply forgets how to feel at times and all her smiles turn to smirks. Like the smoke from her cigarettes, they simply serve to cloud the truth.

She wants to spend her nights on too-expensive couches, watching cheap programming on a too-expensive television. Instead, it seems like the past few months have been a blurr of cheap infomercials and locally made shows with cheesy hosts. Inside, she knows vehemently, that she is better than this. Her voice is stained in smog, but she exhales the words FAME every half-second.

She's so tired of smiling, it seems. Pretend pretend pretend. But her mask and her self are shattered, so she glued the pieces together at random and now everything is crooked. Give them everything. As if she hadn't already. As if she were anything to begin with. Someone called her a whore, with her ankles crossed behind them.

I'm just very cold, she thinks. And none of the arms seem to fit right."

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Fight Terrorism: Grow Your Own!