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birdie�s started cutting herself again. like she was when we met, five years ago. she can�t do it right when she means to. she can only hurt herself on accident. on purpose she never gets through the skin. always grabs the dullest knife, subconsciously. i have never cut. it�s too public. that�s what lands our friends in asylums. �Hospitals.� white room after white room. my nightmares are always in white. outside the sunlight feels like flames. purging. i want to light myself on fire and burn. i have too much flesh. i feel like a whore, encumbered by it. i want to be all bone. i perch over the heating ducts and imagine i�m in flames. this is the winter of my twentieth year. they said it would go away by now. last night i dreamed that damiana loved me again. she hated me, but she loved me anyway. we sat and howled at the moon. she was coy, like always. i thought i loved hemlock more, but i find i was mistaken. i found a miniature shopping cart. i want to saw it apart and turn it into a buggy. put a little butterfly-winged barbie in the seat. dye her hair violet. send it to hemlock with a note that says, �all dressed up with nowhere to go.� he�d know what i meant. but i can�t. i hate him. i want to tell damiana i realized i�m in love with her, but i can�t. she hates me. i think i hate her too. i�m new to this hate thing. i�ve never done it before. at first it was hard, but now i�m having fun with it. my mother and my new-boyfriend-who-already-doesn�t-love-me-anymore are good at supplying little mean things i can do to them. �Feeble,� says my mother. �Assholes,� says the boyfriend. �They�re perfect for each other.� �You should write her another email.� there�s so much support here. i can feel it holding me together. |