03.11.03 . 6:15 a.m.
119: all youre cracked up to be

It's so much more amazing when you've opened like a flower and it's not just paint.

It's always so painful, the first day, the clots, my stomach moving underneath the skin; I cry, I pass out, I bleed on the floor. And despite that, or because it keeps me so concious of what my body is capable of, I don't hate it (anymore). What I am capable of.


i'm hiding out in between the raindrops again. i'm light as a feather in this wind & inside my head. maybe one day i'll tell you how i got over counting the bones in my ribs & pretending they were the bones of his hands. (but i haven't yet. you'll remember the shape of my name in the afternoon dust motes. sometime. and then it will be your hands fitting in between my ribs & your head resting on my stomach.) it's a fog, it's a mess i've got inside my skull from too many horomones running around.

& the only clear part to yesterday was the last time i collapsed in the hallway; how my head sounded hollow as it knocked back against the wall. thump, thump. now i can feel a soft spot under my heart & can touch the purple stain on my right knee.

i'm swimming in the bathtub & crying in the sky.


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