J,

Relating right now.
Except I hate him.

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Mannequin

I was just a mannequin;
a body for your lips to press against.
And I can’t lie,
That’s partially why I detest

You.

We aren’t even friends,
we never were (first),
And I don’t know who
is to blame for that.

Because part of me wants to sit here
And beg
and plead
for you to take me
into your life somehow;
fit me around
your room-mates,
Taco,
and Kali.

I’m jealous
that you respect her as a person,
while I’m just a means to an end.

And don’t say
that she’s what I thought you wanted.
Because you do want her;
and your ex,
and me…in ways you shouldn’t
be thinking about.
Remember,
“respect”?

Deep down,
I know you’re not good for me,
and I know that
whatever we had for a week
should end in smoke,
and you should let me seethe.

But you made me feel like shit,
and I think you ought to know it.
I think you ought to know,
that you aren’t as great as you want to be.
And she may satisfy a craving,
when your real problem is,
you don’t know what you want,
or how to be lonely.

Two and a half years
is a long time.
I know.
Try two years and ten months;
then bring in her ex.

But if your mind still wanders,
it’s not because you’re human.
It’s because she isn’t your everything.
That’s something you have to realize
and accept.

And you shouldn’t need her to be
complete.
But right now you’re selfish,
and can’t see the forest for the trees.

This is a rant,
without me expecting an apology.
This is me stating you are
quickly becoming nothing and no one to me.
Because where I thought you were friend,
you used up what little I had left of me,
and disguised it as respect.

Yet I know,
if I let my lips,
get close enough to kiss,
things like time and space,
will no longer exist.

But what should it matter?
How do I feel,
if I am just your mannequin?

Body Conscious

So I’ve never been “Pro-Ana”,
but I get told I’m being put in
“The Tent” again and my first thought is

“Yay. Dropping another pant size.”

Because last summer,
when we were put in conditions that made us sick,
when we sweat out all water,
blood,
and oxygen
in that enclosed and breeze-less prison
I lost any sign of the Freshmen “15” that I had previously gained.

And I’ve never been “Pro-Ana”,
but I’m realizing, on a good day,
I only eat one actual meal.

Try to make it healthy.

But there are days when I can’t,
and I consider coffee filling and push off other
options because I know certain things are fattening.

I haven’t worked out in a week and my stomach
isn’t flattening.

No pain, no gain.
But no energy.
I’m missing sleep to write—-
papers, or write senselessly.

He has made me feel and suck in on myself.

I’m scared that if I’m not skinny,
I won’t be his type of pretty.

My ex told me
“thin” was part of being his type.

I was told when I went out to lunch with my guy friend,
if I wore yoga pants,
he’d just stare at my ass.

A regular and mentally challenged customer comes in today
calls me I’m pretty

(because I’m in a dress)

and tells me to send him pictures of me in a dress
on my phone.

And I find it ironic,
twisted,
and horrid that even he,
not fully understanding,
is sharp enough to understand
that men say things like that
in order for me to take them like a compliment.

Without realizing the struggle of
keeping my waist thin,
but if you see my ribs, I’m automatically unhealthy.
That I crave for a lower V,
but crop tops don’t mean you have the right to touch me,
invasively.

Because I’m circling my hips,
does NOT mean I want you to
“grind on me”.

But I’m skinny,
and therefore pretty.
So logically it’s okay to be considered:
slutty.
Putty in the hands
of all men who know your body
but not the struggle.

Because when they’re trying to get in your pants,
you’re wishing to drop a size.

I’ve never been “Pro-Ana”
but on days like this,
before I forget the other options,
as sad as it is,
I know why some girls think
they’ll only be considered
good enough
wanted
pretty enough
when they die.

Still

I will still stumble over the moments
you pulled me in.
Where I was tangled in nets,
and wires,
and seaweed,
and veins

of your pain
disguised as affection

and I fell,
fast,
suddenly,
still

after all this time.
Not “always”.

I’m making something
out of nothing
and I know this,
but your hands were tangled in my hair
and when I told you more
you didn’t hesitate to
pull me back in.

When you pulled back,
somehow it wasn’t

over.

And maybe, it isn’t—-

Maybe, for now,
we should just remain:

incomplete.

Still,
after all this time.

Right There

One day,
they’re going to wake up,
to the wounds of

you

the scars,
the scratches,
the scabs,
that all wear your name proudly.

Because they let you bleed through.
They didn’t listen and
you knew you couldn’t get them to.
But you would’ve stayed,
bedside,
until they stood again,
walked again,
made it through
whatever fire
was burning them from the inside

out.

But instead,
they blame
the way their stitches
spell out your initials
and their crutches
bend like your bones,
and their IVs drip like your eyes
because it always was,

but never when they wanted,

you.