The Pedestal (Part 1)

There is a beautiful aura about a girl you love-

it doesn’t matter if she’s a bitch.

I feel - when I look down at the text and all I see are the words,

‘I cheated on you’,

I feel a lot.

It was like she embraced my heart and spat it from her stomach

back into my face.

She was an irritated hornet’s sting being plunged

into an already infected gash in my skin.

My love for her felt like an icicle piercing my lungs

and clawing my throat with frostbite.

It was like being a father who is watching

his daughter’s face jerk back and die

as the collision of the truck hits her small fragile frame.

It was like mixing water and fire together in a steel box…

needing each other to exist but sucking

everything out as they go until they

both shrivel into nothingness.

Like making a horror movie and realizing

every single swear word is out of sync

and landing on the lover’s sex scenes.

Like throwing up and looking forward to the relief

afterwards that never really comes –

you don’t stop and your stomach cramps

with its emptiness and your head feels like it’s full of spew.

It’s like you expect to find yourself staring down

with dead hollow eye sockets at the ground

where you hope to lie scattered in scarlet with a split-open skull

within the next minute.

Like hearing your name and turning to be

grasped around the throat with decapitated hands

worn by your demon.

Like putting your faith into a religion and

realizing all they did was soak you in their urination of lies

and pad their bellies with good food and

supply curtains for godly teachers to rape children behind.

Yes, dear diary, something like that.

My name is Mikaela, but Dani calls me Bitch.

Call me what you feel I deserve today.

I’m going emo. I feel dark inside. I want to hide. Diary, not just hide, but cower in the darkest, driest, loneliest meeting point of two walls.

I’m so angry. Too angry.

In my Illustrator class today, my teacher Raymond slung British snobbery at me no matter what I did. I asked him one question and he looked at me as if I was the most rebellious child in day care.

‘Can’t you find it? It’s not hard…’ Honestly I can not remember what he said completely, I had already begun ignoring him and working it out myself. That’s what you get for asking for help.

Sam isn’t talking to me since two weeks ago. Nothing happened, except maybe the realization that I’m not good enough for her.

Monday I mentioned something about my coding and asked if it was correct – she kept staring at her moniter screen and vaguely slipped an, ‘Uh, I don’t know…ask Phil.’

She pissed me off so I retorted, ‘God, you know a lot.’

‘Well, you obviously do.’ It wasn’t even personal, it was beyond that.

It’s like I’m too young, too inexperienced, too stupid to be a friend of Sam’s, the wonderfully stable, wanna-be butch lesbian. And yeh, I agree. Like hell I’m going to cater to her and her mixed up thinking. I just couldn’t give a damn.

Dani texted me yesterday. We fought all day.

I texted Dani today. We fought all day.

We are together again.

Dear diary, I know what you will say. See, I enjoy self-infliction.

I am becoming emo.