Her ears bleed nonsense and there’s not a thing she can do about it. Sometimes it’s the good hurt and she takes it, turning violent winces into forced smiles, but when that takes too much effort, she cries to herself in a desperate attempt to bleed gracefully, beautifully. She looks in the mirror and sees angry lines that refuse to disappear, a beautiful face that hides so much, tired eyes that beg to be rested and the bleeding ears that started it all in the first place. She feels betrayed and used most of the time, most of her life, a feeling that she used to be so dissonately proud of, the questionable decisions that forced her in this direction, the piles of paper that mark each major life change. From nothing to nowhere to something to someone to some place to everything that she wanted and dreamt of. The people who claim to love and cherish her, the girl that calls her a best friend, the liars that fail to shut their mouths, they all dig into her skin and tear it apart, leaving fragments of fragility and shards of torn flesh. Always bleeding. Red strips of anonymity fly off her calloused hands, the blanket fails to cover her feet when the night gets cold, and he smells like illegal staleness. Why aren’t you this, why aren’t you that, why don’t you want the right things for yourself??? The ten dollar bill and damp receipt are all the proof they need. Her refrigerator is full of food as she stares blankly at the wall, her face looking sunken and desperate, her mind full of thoughts and questions screaming at her, pounding for escape. Read everything you’ve written since the seventh grade, he tells her. What is a lie? And why is it so difficult for you to sleep at night? Do you suppress the thoughts you wish to dream about, the people you wish to fuck while unconscious? Did you just make eye contact with me for a reason? Did you let him violate the trust you had put in him because it made you feel something? Are you really that desperate to emote? Do you think you could be any more hypocritical?
There are holes in everything. You fill them up and they never give you anything you return – they’ll gladly take your most significant moments without thinking twice and will somehow find a way to blame you for their deceitful kleptomania. Try to figure out why you are so eager to label your folders and stuff them with what others tell you is important. Can you remember the last time you were pleased with the actions of the people that surround you? Being anonymous is like taking a white pill that your body forcefully rejects, but you enjoy the consequences anyway, sometimes secretly. It’s difficult because you’re so quick to associate enjoyment with the presence of other people’s fake smiles and embraces. In trying to figure out why your towel always remains slightly damp and refuses to dry, you may find that it’s not actually the fabric that’s soaking in the water. By the way, did you ever get what she promised you? Why do the bruises on your body consistently change colour but never disappear? Why is she still screaming? Did you fill up all the holes yet? Is your heart broken? Why did you sleep with his best friend? What is the definition of hope? Why do you bleed so much?
