Wind-Whipped

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belly lines and cold tile floors

my heart pounded hard against my chest,
like an amateur boxer trying desperately to prove himself against the biggest competitor of his career.
they say when you find someone who cares about you, the sparks are supposed to be as powerful as fireworks on the fourth of july,
and that your stomach should swarm with a million newborn butterflies,
but instead of butterflies my stomach feels like it’s filled with tiny knives, carving away at the fat that you judge me for carrying.
and your eyes are recently sharpened saws sawing away at my self-confidence,
your mean words the dull hammer that forced the nails into my expensive coffin that’s filled to the brim with fake memories from fake people.
my stubby shaking fingers, the ones with the chipped polish and self-harm scars that i burned into my marred and dirty skin, trying to grasp onto you, onto anything close to me so that i might steady myself instead of falling into the month-long depression i’ve grown to know as more comfortable than our own cold home.
my heavy lungs, filled with the smoke of a thousand wasted breaths, coughed up the remnants of a long night spent with you in your broken down sedan, while you traced the rough lines along my belly and told me that no one would ever find me beautiful.
my hair, dull and frail and longer than it’s ever been, wrapped tightly around my throat, breaking into your hands and falling into the toilet I’m leaning over, hoping I have something left to feed it. your laughter is a sharp staccato, like shotgun rounds piercing my sensitive eardrum, and once again my face becomes the smooth tile of my unclean bathroom floor.

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