"This isn’t the first lifetime I’ve tried to kill myself," she thinks, rising out of bed.
She slinkies her tense shell of a body off the bed, pushing the cloudy comforter onto the floor. Muscles aching, She rises like a down-feather Phoenix, stretching her marshmallow-pretzel bones until they crunch into place. For the last 3 months, like a bitch baby, she’d been relearning how to sleep.
To fear not of specters slithering in the night, but shivering at the thought of your body devoid of light? Highest praise to the rooster lamp shedding light, it would be hours before She’d even think about opening the curtains. All corners shine from one lamp, except for the darkest corner of the room where nothing but dirty socks and a single letter live. Depression, in true dusty fashion, hates Vitamin D and loves metaphysical congestion.
Her room–shockingly worse than Her mental state–is covered by dust bunnies and a dozen moving boxes. On the walls nothing remains but edges of posters and strands of hair under big chunks of tape. 19 years of memories torn down in a 30 minute impromptu destruction of childhood sanctity. "If I can’t remember my childhood or teenage years, then I’ll do them again" whispered like a wimp before shoveling 60 mg of vyvanse and ⅓ of a wax pen into Her system just to start the day. She only has 6 pills left. Today's the day to take one.
Tabula rasa doesn’t exist for minds that have experienced horrors of the body. There is no starting fresh when your mind sends your body on a one way ticket to hell every chance it gets. No new stuff, a new Her. Or so she’s been told. The same seeds in new soil, ready to bloom or rot in a different bed.
Morning routine. Walking wasn’t in her fashion that morning, just gliding and sliding. Using the friction of pink piggy slippers against blue-black hardwood, She slides to the bathroom and grabs a toothbrush. A squirt of toothpaste, the bubblegum kind. Brush brush. Pray for no blood. "I can die happily once I’ve mastered mental health" she thinks before jamming the toothbrush down her throat, spitting white and pink into the sink.
text tone: i'm a very rich bitch
Still brushing her teeth, She picks up her phone. 2 texts from her mother. It reads:
'Happy second first day. LOVE U ANGEL'
'Breakfast in 20'
She spits out the rest of the bubblegum toothpaste and returns her brush to the designated flossy throne. A Graceful Godzilla, gliding from one side of the room to the other, knocking over boxes as she goes.
Thunk! A small box is knocked over.
A stack of books, heart shaped lollipops, & a vacuum-sealed bag labeled 'BIKINI TOPS'
PLUNK. She throws the miscellaneous objects into a box labeled 'SCHOOL'
Thunk!
A medium cardboard box knocks over. A stack falls out wrapped in a red ribbon. The type of ribbon only a craftsperson or a seasoned gift wrapper could dawn. She runs her skinny, unmanicured finger through the crimson fabric for the first time, revealing the top frame.
It’s Her, The Friend, & Another posing fabulously in a courtyard. Luckily, She only had one photo custom framed, leaving 39 memories behind. The relationships didn’t last long enough to get from frame to wall. There was a time She wasn’t allowed in photos. To quote her last best friend, "posting with You doesn’t get likes."
She picks up one of the top prints, a bit misty-eyed but it’s too early in the morning for a downward spiral.
With tears edging her waterline she mumbles the following words, "God, I looked so good that day."
"Where are my friends?
Hark! There! Like pigeons they go.
Was it too loud when I stepped on the ground?
Or was it something more like...
Tired of the incessant reassurance,
Grown weary of stitching up a capricious mess,
Done wiping my snot onto their sleeves?
Fabulous friends until you peel back layers to find bitter flesh
Kind, unless asked to empathize
Wise, until questioned
Creative, unless originality is called for
Seeds in my mouth, I crush the flesh and shit it out.
I keep the seeds, because I can do something with that.
Why would they pluck my petals after admiring my sweet scent?
Pluck! Pluck!
Plucking me apart,
asking what paint could be made with my color
which eau to be perfumed? No. Not quite...
How can the rosiness be blushed? Yes.
Never questioning their capacity for compassion, logic, reality.
Proving my biggest fear and Daisy Buchanan's wish; some can only be beautiful little fools in life.
My will to never make a friend again for it only ends in two broken hearts."
PLUNK. The box is picked up.
Except she doesn’t return the photos to the box, She crosses her desk. She kicks out her piggy slippered foot and opens the lid to a pink bin. She closes her eyes and throws away the remaining photos. Without taking a breath, she places her gaze on the single fancy card stock thumbtacked to her wall.
The words don’t matter, the font is atrocious, the spacing is horrid. It’s not an important letter. Well, except for one line. A strew of words, doused in sheer horror, demanding 'permanent dismissal from the University.'
She throws up into the pink bin. "At least it’s not blood" Clementine says...