Cups pile in my room, the water in them drying up and staining its glass walls.
Dust sticks to my heels with every slow step,
my chest shakes and trembles with every shallow breath.
My fingers are sticky. I seize.
I regret.
I want to scrub myself until my skin grows bright red and itchy--
To rip the skin off my middle and ring fingers
To peel away my cuticles and graze myself raw.
I cannot look at myself the same
I cannot rub lotion into my elbows
Watching the ashy white turn tanned and smooth again
Without thinking about what you did.
A chisel against unspoiled marble
Shaving off bits and pieces of rock
Until it is something more beautiful.
Maybe it made me stronger.
Maybe it made me more fragile.
I was not beautiful enough for you as is.
I have and will always be disgusting.
You are disgusting.
Maybe that is why I struggle to distance myself from you.
A moth bathing in the glow of a lamp.
Maybe I see myself in you--
You are the one looking back at me
Across the mirror in front of my sink.
Not me.
Not me.
Not me.
You are disgusting.
You are the monster.
Not me.
Not me.
Not me.
