See, she doesn't really like to think about it. About the tiles of the bathroom floor and the slick of her spit on her fingers, the sight of her face, dripping with sweat and tears and snot, in the mirror. She's doesn't like to think about it, doesn't want to be reminded of how fucked up she is.

But, the few times she does, all she feels is pride. And maybe that's ugly and broken and black but it is also the truth and when has the truth ever been sweet?

See, when someone tells her, "you've become so thin," she takes it as a trophy and she wants to show it off to the world, let the world know just how's hard she has worked for this. But she can't. She can't because they have names for people like her. Sick. That's all they'll say.

She knows she is, she doesn't need anyone to tell her. And sometimes she thinks of hands resting on hers, telling her it'll be fine, telling her it's be alright but she doesn't know who those hands belong to. She just wants a hand to hold on to.

Sometimes she'll look at herself and feel like she's a cry for help being ignored. And maybe sometimes she'll imagine her heart slowing and sometimes she'll think of her heart glowing and they're so different, both the scenarios. But are they?

They both speak of escape. And isn't that all we want. An escape? See some people use pills and some people use needles and some people use bottles and she uses pain. And for anyone who romanticises pain, fuck them. Yearning for pain, for attention, and then you get it and everything in you feels ugly. Ugly and disgusting and you're changing and you can't stop but-

But it's okay because sometimes you'll find yourself sitting on the bathroom floor with your finger down your throat and tears in your eyes and maybe that's fucked up but she's fucked up anyway so it's alright.

See, she knows she's surrounded by love. Surrounded, enveloped, blanketed, whatever superficial word you want to use. She knows.

But she is not surrounded by support.

And maybe they think love is support but it's not because loving is tiring and loving is hard and loving is doubting and that's all that's she's trying to get away from so she puts them at a distance and then blames them. She blames them for not supporting.

And what does this have to do with her affection for the toilet bowl, you may ask? She'll tell you. She doesn't know it herself but she'll tell you.

Because it's all connected. When her mother congratulates her it's connected, when her uncle compliments her it's connected, when her stomach feels full from a cone of ice cream it's connected. See, she never felt good at anything. Why would she? She's fucked up and creepy and too lost to be grounded.

But this. This, she's good at.

She's good at pain and she's good at sorrow and she's good at sitting on the floor of her room and crumbling her heart and throwing it in the dustbin and she's good and sitting in the floor of the bathroom and trying to puke out everything that's ugly in her. She's good at being sick. She's good at being disgusting.

And maybe that's wrong but who the fuck cares? She's good at pushing people away so she did, she's good at making people think she doesn't love them so she did. So now, who's there left to care? No one. She most certainly doesn't.

Sometimes-

Sometimes she sits and thinks about what would have happened if she didn't break herself into tiny pieces and rearrange herself to look ugly. Would she have been beautiful? Would she be able to move mountains? Would people see light in her eyes instead of the bulb she was forced to fix so people think it's the sun? Would she move better? Would she be better?

She doesn't like to think of this. It's painful and sad and she smiles when she thinks of this. She doesn't like to, but she does anyway. She think of a girl who's strong and gets lost in her adventures and in her head.

See, everything is interconnected. Everything has a thread and each thread is connected to the other and even a small movement in one thread will move the others. She tangled up her thread and made everything more connected so that she's tangled in the mess she forced herself to make. That can break apart so easily with one snip.

And maybe she wants help but she doesn't ask for it. And maybe that's stupid but to her it isn't.

It's funny, isn't it? How the word "maybe" can so devastating?

I'd ask you to help me
But I know I can't, I know that
I've already got my hands covering my mouth
So I hope my eyes are enough
God, I'm so fucking tired