Share your dirty secrets

Maybe none of us are sick, maybe everyone's sick. Even the doctors are, for thinking they're high and mighty enough to push them into hospitals, take people away from me. Maybe they're sick and wrong for not caring when they found out after she was released she opened herself up like a fish fillet, and hung herself with wings glued to her back, they didn't even frown. They're the sick ones.

Maybe I'm wrong and fabricated in different sections into which should not be stitched together, like... gasoline and sulfur? My Grey matter is going to implode into a mess of flowers and ash. Answer my questions. I'll give you some glitter and pills. None of us take the 'pain.' I never felt the pain, or cried, till I saw blood in my hand, because mom told me bleeding wasn't right. Bleeding was wrong and you needed something to cover it up and fix it, maybe that's why when I was 12 and I found the damp wetness of blood between my legs I told mother it was nose bleeds, and I always got those anyway because of the high heels and harsh words.

Maybe that's why when I downed all the wonderfully laced electric smiles all the pain when away, and I could smile at her while she screamed 'fucking gag her, shut her up, whore', and I knew it was alright because she had downed it too. I sat next to her while she let him carve 'x's' into her forearm, and he'd briefly frown and joke at the already present scars, and she'd smile and throw back her hair, which she cut off. I wished I had the courage to, because I wanted to look painfully beautiful, and she could rip it out with golden scissors bought with porcelain love, and she looked like an enchantress, and I know we are truly jealously broken.

We sat screaming down highways marked 'south of heaven' and I knew I had heard those words before, but it still seemed the wrong way. We picked up names and glued proverbial name tags to our shirt pockets, lain in junk yards. Screaming names of broken hearts in which we'd worn on our sleeves, like prizes and proof of outer beauty, like the yellow brick road and raped childhood innocence, like razors and laxatives. It was like hanging myself with movie film, something I never want to see again.

Because it hurts to think about him. Like poetry from angsty years bleeding into now, down my cheeks and worn through notebook paper, yellowing and tear stained. Whispering poetry in such passion that my best goodbyes were wasted on a drunken man who ripped back memories of closets and Kodak moments super glued onto record store walls, then screaming never stopped, yours and mine stuck on repeat. Till the lights went out in the dollhouse and we could both choke down sea water sighs.