raw.
when i take off the pretty-things, the push-up bras and lacey things, the clothes that hide me from myself — when i strip off the disguise, I see myself. Probably more clear than I have in a long while. My body is not filled out like the shirts lie, ‘sexy’ like the cleavage and “fake” breasts lie. Abnormally flat and hidden bones under clever pairs of shorts and sweats that have known me in ‘better times’.
It’s a disguise for myself, to myself, that I often ignore all too greatly, that it startles me when i see - when i am able to see - it. How did you do this to yourself, girl? What pushed you so far, child? To become a child-figure of a woman. Alien and foreign and nausea and new to the touch every day, a new angle a new curve a new worry.
Hidden in a bulk that lullabies your worries, that it is fine. To worry at night, and disregard during the day - to take your anger on your body and mind and cover it from yourself, and cry and shame yourself when others take notice. they can see it? or are they exaggerating? i can’t see it. but when i do, the sun is gone and people are asleep and no one wants to be woken up by a Something that might be a little mad.
To just want to say I’m scared and don’t mean to , but I can’t stop. I hate it all and i can’t stop. And I hate the way it saps my life and makes me a monster and makes me a child and makes me nothing and I can’t stop. To hold me till it’s gone and I see the fear I need to see. To hold me and love me and please just love me for what I still am. I hope you see who I still am.
