How many comments on your eating habits until it’s acceptable to kill your mother
The egocentricity of my disease hadn’t quite hit me until I wished you to be stark dead. Yes, walking across the road, cars blaring by, I begin to imagine the funeral. The force of a car so stout against your skull, you’d be declared gone in an instant. I stand there, sweating, willing it all, just for the permission I’ve needed to ram a bullet through my head.
I see it all so clearly:
I’d stare at your corpse through our wooden coffins. We’d lie there side by side, facing the ceiling of a crowded southern church. On one pew: a broken mother, a comforting step-father, a trembling sister clenching the hand of her girlfriend. On the other: a guilty woman, a silent man, a college dropout in white high heels. The two hundred and six feet would stomp towards our well-dressed bodies, eager to see death at its freshest. An ex-roommate would stand to give a speech, to talk of the times you cared for his mutt, to share some made up last words, to end with a joke on the height of your hair.
The joke wouldn’t land.
The parlor would shave your head for the burial.
My mother’s turn would be next. She’d begin with a prophecy: my daughter, destined to be a servant of Jesus Christ. She’d tell the story of God’s voice in the hospital, of my call to the missionary, of my multiple baptisms. She’d forget to mention the times I swore in His name, the years I’d gone without prayer.
I would smile as she spoke, remembering the time you kissed me hard against the sanctuary doors, your fingers clinging tightly to my little Budweiser tank top.
I am not buried in my little Budweiser tank top.
A man in the back would takes notes, thinking of ours to be the world’s greatest romance. An old boyfriend would cry, relieved to have escaped such insanity. The Murphy twins would sit on row three, shaking their rational heads at our emotional stupidity. None would know what was true. None would know that I’d pushed you to the streets, that I’d wished you to walk slowly, that I’d guided you to the grave.
You’d refuse to look at me. You’d sing loudly when I cried your name. Finally, finally, you’d tell me to fuck off, to just go to heaven, to go wherever you weren’t. You’d beg I repent of my sins, that I’d spend my eternity eating fish and loaves, fish and loaves, fish and loaves, kissing the feet of God. I’d remind you that I don’t eat meat.
You step on the sidewalk, safe from late night traffic. I greet you from the grass, smiling wide, swearing I’d missed you as you’d shopped for the liquor. I wait until the gin is gone to tell you how I wish to die, to tell you that you’re the only reason I’m alive. You mumble God, facing the apartment ceiling, drifting to a hard night’s sleep.
I glance to my fingers. In one hand: your palm. In the other, a fist full of bloody nails…
I lay your body in the streets.
The air smelt like a cheap scented candle, labeled Midnight Moon or Creature of the Night, though it wasn’t the product of commercial burning wicks, but rather the universe’s way of gloating its vulgar charm, a reminder that just as all else, even nature was faulty. You walk far enough into the woods, you find yourself eaten alive by flesh-licking bugs, knee high in deer shit, and tripping on embedded roots. But oh, it looks damn good from the brim.
I stuck my key in the door, contemplating hanging my dog from the leash as punishment for his late night barking. He licked my toes as I stepped inside, resolving me to let him live another hour. Cluck Cluck, baby. I’ll cook ya up like a chicken if you pull that shit again, I thought to tell him, leaning down to give him a big kiss on the nose. I rolled my suitcase to the bedroom, groaning at the prospect of digging to find my toothbrush.
Joe had demanded we each say five good things before I left the apartment to go back home. I got to one. Lying there, feet sprawled high against the wall, I tried my hardest to think of something better than “I didn’t botch the coffee,” but nothing came. I’m so damn negative, I said, to which he didn’t reply, for there was nothing one could truly say. We sure knew how to throw a reunion… Trying helplessly to change the mood of things, I think to tell him of the morning I’d spent masturbating to the thought of him while away on vacation… But I don’t tell him this, because dependency upon one person, even in the sexual realm, is not a good cure for such feelings of loneliness.
If you had to paint every wall of every house you ever lived in for the rest of your life just one color, what’d you choose?
He walked me to the door and locked it right behind me.
I stared at my reflection in the bathroom mirror after having fished the toothbrush out of my suitcase. Speckled, the usual, dotted red all over as a symbol of youth and grime. I slapped my face and looked to the bathtub. Someone had been using my razor to shave. Asshole, I thought, knowing that it really shouldn’t matter. Probably my sister who’d spent the previous evening vocalizing her curiosity as to whether or not our black waiter had spit in our food. Yeah, I thought. Probably. I’d spit in her food.
I glanced back at my toothbrush, gauging my hunger level, deciding to honor the pangs in my stomach. The kitchen was dark, and so I allowed fate to determine my midnight snack. Reaching my hand towards the pantry shelving, I pulled a stack of crackers and sighed. My dog’s toes hit the floor loudly like an angry woman’s fingernails, as if he had every intention to awaken the slumbering beasts down the hall. Cluck Cluck, I told him, peeking at my parents’ door.
That’s the problem with solitude, I thought. When you’re in the prime of the world, dealing with human creatures, only the big stuff is painful. You learn to care about terrorist attacks and dead babies and salmonella. But then that stuff sucks you dry, so you decide to care a little less. You settle with a group of acquaintances, people with music tastes that you tolerate. Then they play a new song for you, and it’s so awful that you have to get rid of them completely. So now you’re all alone, and all you can pick at is the sound of your dog’s toes, and you find yourself even more homicidal than before.
I shovel the crackers down my throat, returning to the bathroom to brush my teeth. Cluck Cluck, I tell the mirror.
I know it hurts. I know it doesn’t feel good.
I know your hunger is different than mine.
I know it doesn’t taste the same as mine.
imagine you could grow up all over again
and pinpoint the millisecond that you started
counting calories like casualties of war,
mourning each one like it had a family.
sometimes I wonder that.
sometimes I wonder if you would go back
and watch yourself reappear and disappear right in front of your own eyes.
and I love you so much.
I am going to hold your little hand through the night.
just please eat. just a little.
you wrote a poem once,
about a city of walking skeletons.
the teacher called home because you
told her you wished it could be like that
let me tell you something about bones, baby.
they are not warm or soft.
the wind whistles through them like they are
holes in a tree.
and they break, too. they break right in half.
they bruise and splinter like wood.
are you hungry?
I know. I know how much you hate that question.
I will find another way to ask it, someday.
I know they are all yelling at you to stretch yourself thinner.
l hear them counting, always counting.
I wish I had been there when the world made you
snap yourself in half.
I would have told you that your body is not a war-zone,
it is okay leave your plate empty."
— empty plate | Caitlyn Siehl (via alonesomes)
the next supreme
I Am the Antichrist to You | Kishi Bashi
You know what’s ridiculous? The fact that diet culture leads us to believe that calories are evil
It’s ridiculous when you eat/drink something and someone says “do you know how many calories are in that?” as if to say how DARE you consume calories
Well news flash: you actually need calories to live, they are literally essential to life. Sorry not sorry if choosing to live is offensive in some way
surprise we had babies!!!!