Monday, November 30, 2009

self inflict.

so, i had to write a 750 (or less) word piece for my non-fiction class. this is what i came up with!


I’m fifteen. My insides are slopped out upon the ivory carpet. The tip of the knife is jagged, the blood weeps from its tip. I’ll be thinner now. My lips begin to blister, still hot from the delicate flame emitted from the lighter that caressed their surface moments before. In between my tightly fused fingers are strands of hair, each drenched in an inherent and repulsive shade of bleak auburn. I’ll remember that brittle is better. My feet are bound by barbed wire, and the skin draped over my throat itches underneath harsh rope that holds it in place. I’ll stand straighter. My tongue is coarse and stale, and my taste buds are deadened from the syrupy poison that writhed its way down my throat and then deeper. I’ll long for the taste. Bruises paint my cheekbones, and the last didn’t hurt as much as was intended. Pins tightly pierce areas under construction- reminding me not to forget that fact. One of my pinky fingers are snapped back, dangling loosely from the once attached neighbor bone. My fingers will feel smaller. The skin veiling the bones of my hand are sparse, and the wounds are left open to scab. My teeth are saturated in bitter scarlet, and my eyelids are stapled open- so I can remember not to forget. The remaining blood is draining, and my body stops quivering as the ugly leaves me.

The scars of these self inflicted wounds would be better remembered if they could be seen. The slick feeling and the glimmering photo of who I longed to be on the cover of a magazine always lured me from the inside.

I’m fifteen. I touch the slick cover of the newest magazine. One finger feverishly flips through page after page of ads and glittering smiles, and the other clenches scissors.

Tear. First is the brittle tear as the fibers of the paper split and my fingers feel the heat.
Snip. The scissors acutely outline the pair of jeans I desired to conceal my pale legs.
A sharp poke in my side.

Tear, Snip. This body will remind me not to skip running tomorrow. Reach in and string out my gushy stuffing.
Tear, Snip. A purse she has, a belt that squeezes my ribs and the mirror will reflect someone thinner. Tug hard on my scalp.
Tear, Snip. The pages are smooth against my coarse fingerprints, and their fragrant surface flushes away marks of fingerprints once imprinted on my skin. Salty clumps rise in my throat.
Tear, Snip. Eyeliner to shape these ugly eyes, my posture will be held that high in every photo, my cheekbones will be delicate. Teeth carve my skin.
Tear, Snip. That eyebrow arch, that stomach in exactly that shape, and curly hair pinned up. Touch blade to burnt skin and slice apart the veins.
Tear, Snip. Need to have that scarf, need to tie it this way, and need to match it with those earrings. Screams muffled by cotton.
Tear, Snip. The dark color of her skin, the rich moisture of her lips, the length of her lashes. Bits of wire pierce through my eyelids.

These scraps of desire lay sprawled next to my ankles. Pull, Press, and Zip. The tape comes from the dispenser, attaches itself to the back of each of them, and smothers the lavender of my bedroom walls.

My imprisoned eyes allow no escape for the ferocity originally born inside. My lips desire their shape from birth. My hair knows not of its origin, and longs for satisfaction. My posture knows its importance. My tongue knows the sugary taste of a lie, and loathes the bitter taste of a truth. My cheekbones beg for me to love them and put down my fist. My fingers are brittle from clenching, but still recall the dreamy feeling of the air that once passed through them. My skin scrambles to be bound, to hold on, to endure. Mapped between the lines of my hands are nature’s guidance, escape routes, and original design- all in foreign thought now. My teeth long for just one stain and my eyes are consumed in fog. My blood is replaced by thin, slick paper. My ears hear only the sound of fibers being torn, and veins fusing together as a horrific tune rings in my ears. The tape sticks to every hair left on my body.

All that remains are strands of foundation, vowing to protect those still intact.

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