aqueous.she had never come within ninety-three million miles of anything like love, but she said if she ever did, she would name it "september" and keep it in a dirty glass bowl like a mindless goldfish. she'd watch it swim back and forth, waiting for its belly to meet the surface so she could cry for something worthwhile.
she considered the consequences of scribbling down every thought that crossed her mind, pushing it into a bottle, and sending it across the sea. she wondered how long it would take to crack and sink to the ocean floor, and if whatever dwelled below would understand her better than those here above.
she dreamed that life was an all-consuming tsunami, and she figured drowning in it felt something like a soul blistering from a body and slowly drifting away. she couldn't imagine what it would be like if she knew the secret to breathing underwater.
UglyUgly girls are always ignored.
Boys always go for the cute ones, the hot ones, the beautiful ones.
There is just one thing those boys don't understand,
Beauty is not important.
The thoughts and ideas,
Creative abilities and charming words;
These things are above the slight qualities of the body.
Waists as thin as can be,
Long flowing hair,
Shining eyes and perfect smiles.
The beauty of a body is nothing compared to the beauty of minds and souls.
Beauty is a ticket to a different world.
A world without struggle,
A world of dampened pain.
The rest must fight through the insults,
Through the judgment,
Through the rejection,
Through the massive field of ignorance they wade each day.
These girls are punished every day,
For the terrible sin of a flat chest
Or for the heinous crime of unpainted skin.
Bethan.You had never read the same book twice in your life.
I remember watching you rip the pages, one by one, from their yellowed binding. Devouring every word with such a hunger you could swear you were famished. Leaving lipstick fingerprints on every page. I remember when he asked you what you did with them. The pages. The next day he opened the mailbox to sheets of lipstick laden classics. With etched out words he could swear were love poems.
But you never believed in love anyway.
I remember the way you used to smirk at the fools who whistled when you passed by. I laughed because of your expression. You laughed because I didn't have a clue.
He was different.
He couldn't make you laugh, but he made you think. He didn't send roses, he planted you a whole damn garden. And maybe you were happy. But you'd never really know.
You weren't a cynic, just apathetic to a fault.
Cheery, but never close to anyone. And that wasn't the result of your disrespect towards literature.
He never lied, or asked
Routine7:45 AM. A woman wakes up, dresses her best (her coat, a stranger's gift), and walks outside. Empties her wallet to charity. It is nothing.
1:20 PM. The addict stumbles down the busy street, hungry, shoots his dealer, bystander, and takes his prize. Walks away and no one follows. Indulges. Clutches his chest, falls over, is dead. It is nothing.
8:00 PM. The woman walks home, sees body, smiles. Is he sleeping? Takes off coat, covers man. Slips money in pocket--he'll find it there. Goes inside. It is nothing.
3:15 AM. Adulterer, fearful, kicks the ground, angry with world. Sees vagrant, robs. Is he cold? The coat is familiar. Ignores. Buys gun. Shoots spouse, temptation, damnation.
It is nothing.
Real MenThere ain't no real men anymore. I remember when men looked like men. They had the hair on their chest and they weren't afraid of it. These days men wax like pansies and all the girlies go chasing after the hairless fairies. Ha! My girl, she likes me the way I am, she likes the way I never use any of that sissy deodorant and come home smelling manly.
I think Dwight might be leaving me for a man. He keeps going off on these rants about real men, and I've caught him looking at my vintage Playgirls a few times. And he keeps mentioning this bodybuilder guy Barry, who apparently is the epitome of a "real man." I don't think I'm masculine enough. I think I read somewhere that scrawny men like Dwane like masculine women.
I kept thinking this old geezer was gonna make a pass at me, the way he was staring. Then he tells me his wife started lifting weights. But chicks ain't supposed to do that! And then she stopped shaving her legs. I tell ya, the days of real women are long gone. Now th
P.98, 1st Ed.: FOREVER MARKEDFOREVER MARKED: A Dermatillomania Diary (1st Ed.)
© Angela Hartlin
It seems like time passes much faster when I'm isolated in the washroom picking my skin. Minutes go by, an hour or two go by, sometimes even longer, and it only seems like a moment has passed instead. Just like a video game that you get hooked to as it reels in your concentration and dedication, you can play it for hours and soon it's bedtime. By doing what I have for years and accumulating the hours I have spent on myself in this respect, I have wasted quite a large chunk of my life- possibly seven months straight without sleeping, if I made an estimate. When time passes quickly and it happens all the time, I miss out on many opportunities, possibilities, and I fall further away from my dreams. Sometimes I feel younger than I am because I have missed out on a lot of my life by not taking chances or doing anything positively risky due to my own self-ha