[musingsofayounggirl]

Her Lovely Desires

She didn’t know why she behaved so erratically. The pleasurable idea of taking her own life was something that was constant within her thoughts—circling and whirring so constantly, a backdrop as she rhythmically went through the motions of her college life, that on some occasions, she would take the elevator up to the fourth floor of her dorm building and step out on the patio. She was sure that she would never do it, but

worthless, perverted, a freak of nature who should jump

took some sort of grim satisfaction in feeling that sharp, bitter wind lash against her face, the sway in the pit of her stomach as her combat boots stepped onto the fence’s raised curb. A suicide hotline was loud and flagrant as it was plastered on the wall connecting the balcony to the building—perhaps a reminder to students to not seek the permanent solution. And she found this amusing, but only for a few brief moments, before her mind would mock her once more and she’d quickly turn her head. The thought sometimes came of dialing that number, but it was a thought that her fingers never complied with. What use? She thought. There’s nothing about me worth saving. It was often when her spiraling took this sort of turn for the worse that she’d forcibly wrench herself back inside, and descend the flights of stairs to her second-story dorm, lest she linger out there any longer and give in to her most putrid desires.

A more exciting, heart-palpitating option—better, because it allowed her to not end up a mushy splat on the concrete—was hidden away in her backpack, anyways, and it was in the shape of an X-Acto knife, one she had purchased from her university’s student store some few weeks ago now, on a particular Friday afternoon when the Thoughts had been screeching into her brain, acidic and vile and cruel, and she’d needed something, anything to relieve the pain. It was truly a miracle that she’d never taken to smoking, and had too little friends to successfully become an alcoholic.

The blade was sharper than what she’d had to work with back home—a small paring knife with a brightly colored handle that she’d have to swipe from the kitchen very late at night, long after her father with his annoyingly late sleeping habits had gone to bed—and this was something that she’d rather painfully discovered upon her first use of it that afternoon. It had barely even crossed the scar-marked skin beneath her breasts when the blood began to bloom hot and fast, a brooding sort of maroon that leaked from a line nearly invisible, other than the bright sting it bestowed. In the back of her mind, so deeply buried that it was never there at the forefront, guilt was humming softly. The tentative agreement she’d once made with herself, that she’d only cut up her skin during the university holidays when she’d be back at home—a feeble sort of self-preservation, but one that kept her clean for the better part of the year regardless—had been irreparably shattered. No longer did she have to wait the slow, ticking weeks until she could finally feel that familiar, wonderful pain—a pain she had once tried to replicate by furiously scratching her sharp nails along her arms, or using the pointed end of her lotion bottle at an angle and dragging it below her breast like she was striking a match, but it was never the same—for now she was free. The only issue with the X-Acto knife’s cuts were that they took a lot longer to stop bleeding, and since the weather was so cold and her breasts were so small, she didn’t usually wear a bra, choosing instead to hide beneath a thick sweater or hoodie. A morbid fascination crept through her at the thought that she’d be sitting in class one afternoon, and see her own blood trick, trick, trickle onto the floor, fresh from a recent bout of her sporadic skin slicing. But she knew that this would not happen. She wouldn’t let it. Instead, she would just sit in the dingy bathroom stall with wads of thin toilet paper stuck under her breasts and wait it out until the bleeding stopped, mindlessly scrolling through social media and wondering which AO3 fanfiction she should read during her free time later that night.

She thought that freedom was what purchasing this blade had acquired her. Freedom, the loaded word repeating within her head like a song left on loop. Freedom, to mark her body however she pleased

a body too disgustingly vile and grossly obscene to ever be truly desired, fat, fat, fat, she would always be that morbidly obese thirteen-year-old-girl that nobody could ever love

whenever she pleased, and it was great. But then, if she was truly so free, why had that nasty guilt crept up inside of her as she stood at the cash register? As she’d pitched up her voice, like she always unconsciously did whenever she was speaking to strangers, and refused to meet the student employee’s eyes as she’d slid her two purchases across the counter: the X-Acto blade and a two-pack of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, added at the last second because she hadn’t wanted to be too glaringly obvious of her grim intentions. If she was truly so great, then why did she make the purchase using the last of the pre-paid gift card her mother’s coworker had gotten her as a graduation present back in June? She didn’t know if her father could see what she had purchased with her debit card, besides the amount it had cost, but she hadn’t wanted to risk it. Those things could be traced, couldn’t they? And this was for her. Only her. Her nasty little secret, one she held tight to her shrewd little mind and relished in the secrecy of. Nobody had to know of the crosshatch of scars beneath her breasts, new ones vibrant against the shadows of those that’d been there for years, now. Nobody ever would know, she was sure, because she had long since accepted that she simply was not desirable

whale of a woman you’ll die alone better get it over with now you’re fucking revolting

enough to be seen in such an intimate context. Secrets, bleeding from her mouth spitting lies and bleeding from those scars that she would never let properly heal. No, she was not free, not in the slightest, but this did not, and would not, stop the young, foolish girl as the blade carved against her skin once more.

[musingsofayounggirl]

take me home, mom.

i think that if you split my skin open,

you wouldn’t find much inside.

and i wish that i could be everything your heart had desired,

that awful summer morning when you heard your daughter scream of sin for the very first time,

but to do so, i’d only be a liar.

i’ve never been very good at being beautiful,

and i’ve never been very smart.

i wish you got the daughter you longed for,

sitting in your room as a tiny girl,

dreaming of the brightest eyes and the most earnest smile draped around a beautiful face.

but i am corroded, and i am rotten in the most intimate way,

for it is who i am, and i know that i cannot change.

i’m sorry that your daughter was not born true.

i’m sorry that you gave birth to a freak in a skin suit in lieu.

but i will pick at this skin,

i will prod at this skin,

and i will bite though this skin,

i will taste fresh blood as it bursts bright through my flesh,

and i will avenge your loss.

i don’t know how to take care of myself,

though it’s not something i’ve ever deserved.

one day, i’ll be small enough to disappear entirely,

and when you stare into the casket,

you’ll finally see the daughter you were meant to have earned.

[musingsofayounggirl]

for when i see you again.

i still think of you, from time to time.

did you know?

that when my fingers pull and prod at this itchy,

itchy,

set of skin,

that when my mind blurs and my chest begins to hurt,

i envision your touch bringing me back towards sin.

maybe if you’d know how sick i am for you,

things would’ve been kinder,

but i don’t want your touch if it isn’t true,

and i don’t want your love if it’s only a ruse,

and you probably think that i’m pathetic,

moaning and waxing a poem for the boy who was never truly my home,

but this wretched, travesty of a mind is all that i’ve known.

i perch in the corner of my room, now.

trinkets and treasures and toys and figures stuck up in the small little cove.

would you have liked it?

would you have touched my things with a pleasant beam and called me a nerd?

would you have thrown me down onto my too big bed and ravished what’s yours?

in a few months i’ll flee this city,

our lives pulling us opposite ways as we craft opposite memories,

opposite connections,

opposite lives to lead.

my room will be frozen still in the life of a nerdy, geeky teenage girl,

but the door will always be open,

just a creak,

if you find that it is ever my bed, my arms,

that you need to seek.

[musingsofayounggirl]

pin-drop, teardrop.

fingers trembling on a bedsheet noose,

stolen, sticky alcohol sliding down my throat,

fresh blood, can you smell it on my skin?

i’ll never kill myself.

the marks never reach my wrists,

i’ll tell myself that i’m too smart for that,

because i’ll never kill myself.

and i don’t want the world to see my sins.

so i slice and i glide and i carve

upon the skin where no one will ever touch,

the parts of me too ghastly to ever see.

unlovable, illogical, a mess of tears,

the girl i’ve always been.

bright, red, angry slits,

throbbing beneath my breasts.

it doesn’t matter,

i don’t really matter,

because who would ever get close enough to this

creature

to see?

[musingsofayounggirl]

oh darling boy, will you ever miss me?

maybe someday,

maybe somewhere,

maybe someplace,

i’ll find myself absent of the shallow of my breath,

i’ll find myself a new sheath of skin that doesn’t pull,

doesn’t drip,

drip,

drip hollow,

from my bones at every moment’s unrest.

who am i,

if i’m not constantly yearning for your touch?

where am i,

if i’m not lost in the biting isolation,

the ringing, ringing, bleeding,

of my mind,

heart hanging on the improbable,

heart fixated on the impossible?

how do i exist,

if i have to let you go?

so see me now,

lower lip quivering,

nothing more than a pathetic little child,

falsities wrenched from her white-knuckled, teary-eyed blubbering,

and tell her that there was never a chance, not even by a mile.

i have lived a thousand lifetimes where i held you in my arms,

i have lived a thousand years more where you told me to stay,

i have woken from dreams with my tears still lingering fresh on faded, worn-through bedsheets.

it is horribly pathetic, of this i am more than aware.

that after all this time, to still crave you like i do air.

but i just hope that you know,

for this will always ring true,

that, my darling boy,

i love You.

[musingsofayounggirl]

love, orgastically.

hot flashes tearing through this barren flesh all though the night that never lifts,

a guttural groan, wrenched from my heart and wrenched from my chest as it impatiently sits.

all of this love, but nowhere to put it,

nowhere it’s wanted.

your memory plagues me every waking moment of this damned, forsaken life,

the soft pierce of your stare, of which i am forever haunted.

just once, this husk i pilot will begin to beg,

just once, as i fall to my knees and i pray and i pray and i pray,

just once, let me be the object of your most wanton affections,

scalding hot against the skin,

peeling hollow from within,

let me know what it’s like to taste such rotten purity onto my lips as they forever tremble,

for only once, let me know what it’s like to win.

[musingsofayounggirl]

stagnancy of siblings.

i slept in my brother’s bed the other night,

restless, senseless head falling into the divots and curves of a threadbare mattress,

limbs splayed, a blanket that won’t cover.

i stayed in my brother’s room the other night,

eyes tightly shut,

hoping that whenever he’d return from whatever party,

whatever event i was much too young,

much too sisterly, naïve, and teary-eyed to tag along to,

he’d allow me to keep dreaming.

i only hoped that he’d raise this ragged blanket above my chin.

i wanted to hug my brother the other night,

to feel safe and sound in the arms of the one boy who i knew could never do me any harm.

but he’s twenty-two,

and i’m seventeen.

he’s got his whole life ahead of him,

and i’m just this girl who can hardly breathe.

[musingsofayounggirl]

if you’d have me.

it’s maddening to concur,

but i find that no amount

of withered time,

of picture blur,

can ever ease this ever-present

ache in my being that threatens the nature

of my very existence.

cloyingly sweet,

stinging something true, true, true

as the tears from my eyes turn to my mouth spitting lies,

lain at your feet, just as my heart will be,

undone forevermore.

[musingsofayounggirl]

peeling mandarins.

scrip, slush.

i’m peeling mandarins over the kitchen sink,

fingernails too short to pierce the taut skin,

so i carve a slit with my teeth.

scrip, slush.

but these fingers are blistered,

choppy hangnails adorning massacred cuticles,

sweet, stinging juice searing into raw flesh.

scrip, slush.

white membrane, sweeping and swooping into all that is interwoven and true.

but it’ll get caught in my throat,

stuck in my teeth,

i’ll gasp,

and i’ll choke until i am free.

scrip, slush.

there’s a tiny blade beneath blank canvases in the farthest, darkest stretch of my room.

there’s two wet, dripping fingers trembling against clean, firm fruit.

there’s a quiver in my knees and an ache in my stomach,

there’s something nauseatingly sweet lingering on these static teeth.

bedroom, bathroom, both rooms beckoning,

blood rushing and bile rising in anticipation,

but i stay.

hunched over the sink,

sweet citrus splattering against my teeth,

scrip, slush.

i’m peeling mandarins.

[musingsofayounggirl]

onto the curve of your hip, will you etch my name?

in the darkest hour of night,

i had taste your flesh onto mine,

a whirlwind, masochist travesty of a dream,

slipping through my fingers as you,

slip so languidly from my lips forever and evermore.

why do you persist in plaguing my being?

why are you rough on the skin,

yet soft as the wind,

when my rueful mind pictures you beneath me?

our lips had met in tandem,

i drank you in, i drank you whole,

nearly as if i could eviscerate your heart,

pull you in so that i could’ve shared your soul.

though our strings are led along two separate paths now,

nothing more to bind us absent of the phantom past,

so i’ll watch from the side,

as our lives fail to coincide,

but always remember,

how it had felt in that december,

years ago, when our love had been sowed,

yet neither granted the pleasure

to ever just know.

[musingsofayounggirl]

blistered.

who i am is a festering rot,

sunken far into the roots of my veins,

tendrils encircling this heart in everlasting guilt,

closing and clawing in everlasting shame.

if i ruined myself all for the honor of perishing by your name,

would you love me then?

if i dressed like a whore,

a body that betrays me,

weeping to be massacred until everything is overwhelmingly sore,

would you love me?

piercing, sharp fluid searing down into my throat,

inebriation to force myself into artificial bliss,

inebriation to allow myself to forget that you don’t even care if i continue to exist.

i’ve worn so many masks in my life,

disgusting innards of the soul lined with anything and everything that was never really mine.

i don’t want to be top of the class anymore,

i don’t want to be an intelligent young lady matured far beyond her years.

i want to be yours, i want to weep in your arms and i want you to catch me and hold me tight,

but the only thing mumbled from my drunken lips will be a near imperceptible plea that will whisper,

and fade,

into nothingness,

lost to the ever-shifting night.

[musingsofayounggirl]

hyponychium.

mind to dust,

an existence to erupt,

i cannot ever forget what we once were.

your voice echoes in the boundless chamber of a mind that once bent and broke for your touch,

would it be pathetic if i said it still does?

fleeting time, fleeting all,

something exorcised from my memory,

though i scream for it to come home.

very late,

soundless ringing in my ears,

the breath of my family all too near,

i scream for you to come home.

skin beneath my nails,

scars upon my breasts,

chewed nail polish bitter in my mouth,

what does it take for such a smart young lady to become inept?

i keep these distorted memories of us,

drumming tight to my chest because they’re mine.

but what was ever the point?

i wish you knew,

with the biting wind in my hair,

with the fervent honesty of my care,

just how much i could’ve loved you.

[musingsofayounggirl]

masochist.

oh, i would’ve killed for you.

wipe this blood from my war-torn face,

take me wholly as your most beautiful mistake,

anything to prove that for you,

oh, i would’ve always been true.

to feel your nails clawed against my skin,

to watch the crimson bubble to the surface,

to fall to my knees and beg to be let in.

nothing mere for you, my love.

only the stars,

wrenched from the sky,

to place them within your grasp,

to hear my guttural cry.

let me touch the sun for you,

let me bring you the moon,

hold me close,

as this flesh turns to bone.

selfishly self-sacrificial,

because it’s all i’ve ever known.

for you,

i would’ve gone mad,

for you,

i would’ve seared my soul in a vat of acid.

can you take me now?

can you dig your teeth into my heart?

when you taste me on your tongue,

will i be bitter with resent?

or will i be as sweet and docile as the girl for whom you were meant?

i want to be pure,

i want to be your perfect, blonde angel,

but i cannot deny this travesty inside.

though when dawn turns to dusk,

and you sleep with her husk,

look me in my eyes,

look me in my soul,

and tell me the thought never crosses your mind,

of what could’ve been,

if we’d been together whole.

[musingsofayounggirl]

your name, like an elegy.

keep me forever,

ever-long i rest in your heart.

veer away from shameful despisal,

illogical idiosyncrasies, built to a fault.

no matter what the shrieks of hell may say,

no matter how much i long to fuel this craze,

gone is the wind of your touch on my skin,

over the rooftops of which i will stay.

[musingsofayounggirl]

delirium, us.

singed flesh dripping from my bones,

watch as i melt and mold around your feverish touch.

i’ll give you my body, I’ll give you this corpse, i’ll give you everything i have ever owned.

can you see this rot in my eyes?

can you see this product of my demise?

if i force these bruised lips against yours, what do you feel?

what do i taste like?

let me know that i am real.

dredges of night, misery of morning,

shiver out my name, a choked curse from your throat,

ignore what should’ve been a warning.

i am yours, my love,

broken and blue,

exhausted and misshapen,

yours to misuse.

and when the day comes,

when you wish i would’ve stayed,

when you stare into her eyes and are met with vapidity,

know that i am always up for another,

rather foolish,

grin-splitting game.

[moonagedaydreamsofrhiannon]

When The Goo Goo Dolls said “I’d give up forever to touch you,” “you’re the closest to heaven that I’ll ever be” and when Hozier said “the only heaven I’ll be sent to is when I’m alone with you” and when Taylor Swift said “I would fall from grace just to touch your face” and when Hozier said “if I could hold you for a minute, I’d go through it again,” “I would not change it each time, heaven is not fit to house a love like you and I” and when Hozier said “I slithered here from Eden just to sit outside your door” and when George Ezra said “is the grass of Eden overrated? No one else is such a beautiful dream to me” and when Big Thief said “no love is like this, no sacrifices” and when Jeff Buckley said “my kingdom for a kiss upon her shoulder,” “all my riches for her smile,” “all my blood for the sweetness of her laughter” and when Johnny Cash said “you can have it all, my empire of dirt” 

[musingsofayounggirl]

creature of habit.

i have to be doing something,

i have to be doing something,

i fill my schedule from sunrise to sunset

because if i’m not doing something

then im thinking of you.

i’m thinking of a horrible voice and i’m thinking of different universes and i’m thinking about a lobotomy,

because it’s been months,

soon a year.

yet why does my throat clench up and my ears go numb every single time i can feel your presence come near?

everything i see in everything i do in everywhere i go is plagued by the memory of loss.

because i lost,

i lost, lost, lost

in front of probably the entire grade and all i can do is sit and stew with the humiliation of it all.

everyday i crawl out of bed and i’m sick with hatred and fear and anxiety,

i would give anything to purge your existence from my mind.

but you are here, and you are present,

not merely in the fragments of a tortured past,

where i grit my teeth as the swallows of night force me to relive it, incessant.

where i wake with bleach on my tongue and nausea in my throat from a dream that will not be the last.

i miss you so pathetically,

soul lost to the trials of misery,

that i almost consider

crawling

and writhing

my way back to your feet now,

tearful pleads to be granted a seat at the table,

once more.

but you don’t love me,

you don’t love me,

you don’t love me and you never did.

why is that so difficult for my anxious, screaming mind to comprehend?

we could’ve been good, did you know?

we really could’ve been great.

i see you with her, and i wonder just how different things would’ve gone if it were me standing in that place.

i love persona, it’s a really great franchise.

i think i want to pick up jujutsu kaisen soon.

all of my pastimes, everything that haphazardly belongs to me,

my stomach will always recoil when i remember that it once belonged to you.