I try to breathe silently but leave the tv blaring her favorite shows, because I know it reminds her of home. The lights of our fibre optic tree are on twenty-four-seven, and I never feel comfortable speaking above a whisper anymore.
Outside the top corner of the window, through the blinds, I can just barely make out the moon, hazy behind dispersing rain clouds. My eyes hurt and my hands shake but nothing changes. I feel like I could stop breathing and this place would be the same.
Worthless and a waste of space. I'm not good at the things I need to be good at, and every move I make I have something better to compare myself to. I was hoping, I suppose, that it would change.
Hearing it spoken is too much though. A pitiful line scratched into skin as often as not; a punishment for the senses that would eventually leave me curled up between the bed and wall. The blades drew blood, but the words cut deeper. I was only trying to help. I only ever try to help.
We dream of perfection and about how it may kill us someday. We think about perfection in such stark colors that it disgusts others. But for me it only applies to me, but it's always making me feel so sick. I can never see myself in those colors, or even really imagine it. I will disappoint you and myself. I will fall short of perfection. Keep watching, any day now..
They say I can be needy but I can't be without a mantle of guilt settling on my shoulders. I can't hold tightly to anything anymore, I don't trust myself not to break it completely. I lay in bed and can't breathe, but never ask for help. They will ask what's wrong, and I cannot formulate the proper reply. What is wrong with me?
If I was ever an angel, my wings could not support me. Something has to give.
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