My Soft Edges

My Soft Edges

*Eating disorder trigger warning*

All my edges have been Softened.                                                                      All my hollows filled out.                                                                                           Every sign of my pain erased.                                                                         Except of course everything that never can be.                                                       I'd be lying if I said I didn't miss it.                                                                         The ache in my bones reminding me I was alive.                                                    The ache in my soul finally manifesting in a way people could see my hurt. Reminding me I was alive.                                                                                      You have to be living to be dying.                                                                         All my edges sharp edges have been softened.                                                 Little pockets of flesh pad them down. Away. Out of sight.                                          I suppose they are supposed to do the same thing with the pain.                    Maybe not though.                                                                                                  Maybe they know exactly what they're doing.                                                        The padded edges, my padded body.                                                                      My own quilted isolation chamber.                                                                          My pain isn't their problem anymore.                                                                  My cries padded down.                                                                                            Away. Out of sight.                                                                                                  All my edges have been smoothed.                                                                    It makes my pain a little easier to swallow for them.                                              All my hollows filled out.                                                                                           It makes me it a softer thing to brush aside.                                                            But me?                                                                                                                    I am still here.                                                                                                      Crying out in this padded cell.                                                                                Still cutting myself on all the sharp edges and trying to fill these deep deep hollows

Whiteout

I refuse to use whiteout on these pages. Let them see that pain is not perfect. That these words do not know how to grasp my emotion. That some things cannot be erased. Will not be erased. That things can always be changed without being made to look like they never existed. That things can have mistakes and flaws and scratch marks and added parts and still be a patchwork quilt of beautiful. Let this be the only place where mistakes really do allow you to make things better. 

She brought with herself the calm of the ocean but also the tidal waves 💙 (Kinda reminds me of the selection)

She

“You’re lovely,” you say.

“No,” I reply.

“Yes. You are,” you argue.

It is a half-hearted argument to you. A game. It is all fun and games. Until someone gets hurt. Until you realize someone was already hurt. LOng before the game started. 100 million rounds ago.

 I am not lovely. She is.

Yes. This girl you fall in love with. This girl who tells you that you are beautiful and somehow always knows the right things to say. No one ever asks her how she always knows just what to say, to mend a soul, to send your demons to sleep. 

She is lovely. Isn't she.

This object of my creation. A beautiful girl thing isn't she. Most agree. You seem to agree. You see I’ve been doing this for a while. The trick is to get it just right. Just the right amount of flaw to make her loveable. Just little cute things.Quirks. You love her. 

I am jealous of her, this girl I have created, from myself. 

Selected the likable things, cut away everything else. Cut it away. Shoved the bloody, broken parts of me in a box, tucked out of sight. In a notebook under the mattress. In a box on the top shelf at the back of the closet. The thoughts under lock and key in my head. So you will never have to see these parts of me, at least when I am with you. Except thoughts aren't so easily locked away. Little things you say, small compliments, pick the lock on the door to these thoughts quite often. You catch glimpses of me then. That is not the girl you call lovely.

She is lovely. I know.

I've been doing this for a long time. Long enough to know how they like them. I character myself to every person I meet. Little things. I’ve got the formula down. I think. Just enough of yourself, but not too much. Too much and you've tipped your hand. They know you. Where to hurt you. You've lost the game. Bet you forgot this was a game. This is a game. And I am determined to win, with this lovely cater I have created, for myself, from myself. 

She is lovely.

I don't think I've seen anything more beautiful. 😢💙

Reorganization in process!

The accuracy is painful...

that awesome moment when you finished reading a really good book and you see it at a store then you cunningly smile at it as if you had an affair with it.