I Wish I Could Find Words To

My Bones Are Brittle, My Heart Weak And Erratic, My Esophagus And Stomach Riddled With Ulcers, My Reproductive System Shot, My Immune System Useless... I'm Not Going To Have A Happy Ending.

Having A Normal Person Around Me Made It Poingnantly Clear To Me That I Was Out Of Control.

I Began To Measure Things In Absence Instead Of Presence.

I Developed A Deep, Abiding Fear Of Jeans, Which I Still Have. I Hold My Breath And Shut My Eyes When I Pull On A Pair In The Dressing Room, Afraid They Will Now, As Then, Get Stuck At My Hips And There I Will Stand, Absurd, Staring At The Excess Of Hips That Should, If I Were A Good Person, Be „slim“.

Crazy Isn´t Always What They Say It Is. It´s Not Always The Old Woman Wearing Sneakers And A Skirt And A Scarf, Wandering Around With A Shopping Cart, Hollering At No One, Nothing, Tumbling Through Years In Her Head. No. Sometimes It Is A Girl Wearing Boots And Jeans And A Sweater, Arms Crossed In Front Of Her, Shivering, Wandering Through The Streets At Night, All Night, Murmuring To No One, Nothing, Tumbling Through The Strange Unreal Dimensions In Her Head.