Sometimes I feel like my backpack. Ten pounds of a paper cut hurricane that never stops raging, despite my efforts to tame the zippered black hole. Pencil shavings litter the bottom and stick to the sides. And however hard I try, I cannot force them out. They prick me every time I feel around for a pencil to copy notes that I will not remember the next week. Unseen and dangerous. My backpack is full of things I don't care about and would rather ball up and toss into a trash can.
I'm full of things I'd rather smash to pieces and throw over a rooftop. Lipids and lips that speak words I'd rather not hear. An over-expanse of skin that I'd be better off without. I run my hands over my stomach, leaving sunset streaks that will remind me of my misery for weeks to come. There are days, days when I'm walking down the halls, that I can feel myself being weighted down by all the calories I've miscounted, discounted, and mounted. The numbers sink into my skin, and circle my head. Even when I push them away, scrub myself off, and look into the mirror to whisper, "I am fine just the way I am." with hollow cheeks and hollow eyes, the words sound more like an excuse than the truth.
I wish I weighed as much as my backpack, and every time the number on the scale crawls in vicious spikes of ascent and decent I always feel disappointed when it isn't closer to zero. I have a sick determination to disappear into nothing. But every time I abandon that goal, I'm left thinking, "What's left to do?" and I slip back into the routine of trying to be nonexistent.
YOU ARE READING
Revelations
PoetryIt was really me. It was really you. There was really nothing we could do. To put it concisely, these are short, philosophical situations, feelings, and thoughts of different persons and personalities I've encountered.
