Take Out

I do the same three things every night when I get home. Sink, strip, and shed. 

I sink into my sadness. It’s not really something that goes away anyway, follows me dawn till dusk. Just gets much worse when I’m alone. Being alone makes me sad, really sad. All I can do is wallow in a stupid stance the moment I open my door, gazing on the room I barely clean around. It’s like the floor is one big giant sinkhole, feeds on every single tear that drops from my face and throws it right back at me as an ocean. A flood of my own regret. 

Then I strip down from all my clothes. It’s been getting colder these past few days, which is good to me, because I like to cover up. That is only when I’m not alone. I feel a lot better when I put on lacy strings on my hips and see-through night gowns, I feel a lot more important. I don’t feel as sad, I’m not necessarily happy, but i’m content. I’ve been laying off my meals you know, and it wasn’t easy. A year ago, I was only 80 pounds, which is what is considered a “strange” weight for a girl my age. I don’t really think so, not anymore. It took me a while to get to the weight doctors were happy with, but in just a few weeks, I’ve taken all that back. I like how you can see that now. I like looking sick. Sick to me is pretty.

I walk into the bathroom, I lock the door, and there, I shed. I shed lots of things. I shed my hair, I shed all my thoughts, I shed my skin, I shed my blood, and I shed off the sweat from hands I don’t like touching me. I usually throw up after that. That feeling is the worst. Worst then coming home and sinking in my sadness. Worse than throwing out food in the trash. I hate, hate that feeling. Shamefully feels somewhat nice for a split second, then feels disgusting, disgusting and nasty. I like throwing that up. I like seeing it wash away in shitty toilet water. That’s feels good.