Voids [continued]

Sometimes I wake up and I sob. I don’t cry, nothing leaks from my eyes or spills down my cheeks. There is nothing poetic and beautiful in what I am doing. Sometimes I just scream and shake in my bathroom, bent over the toilet. Broken glass around my bare feet, my skin pale and covered in small shivery bumps. Sometimes there isn’t even a noise, nothing audible to describe what I am doing. I just stand there and feel my body rebel against my brain and I shake so hard that I might crack open, and all the blank stares and black dreams will spill out onto the tile. Today is the same. I stumble down off the bed, slither into the bathroom, and vomit profusely, a mix of fuchsia coloured wine and forty ounces of pale brown beer, vomit. My skin itches, my fingers are trembling and my tongue feels coated in layers of poly blend cotton mix sweaters. I should eat, I know I should eat. My brain is telling me that I need food. That food is good and it keeps you alive and it’s painful when you don’t eat. The rest of me, the bad parts of me, the parts that drive people away, is telling me that I don’t deserve it, that I can stop being hungry and nothing will matter. I can stop feeling completely.

I hate shower. I hate standing there naked, my entire body exposed. I’ve always been small, sort of petite and child like. Now I resemble a skeleton, even less than a skeleton though, really. I am paler than I have ever been, my ribs are now the trademark of my body, and my spine is a spike line on the highway of my snow colored back. I hate everything about myself, the black curls that fall too tightly against my face, the sunken in expression of my light green eyes, the too thick lips. I resemble too much of my parents separately. The Korean of my mother, the Irish of my father. A too even balance. He thought it made me exotic. Different from everyone else. I thought that for a little while too. That because he saw something beautiful in me, maybe something was. He’s gone though and he took whatever he saw with him. I’m not even human anymore. My feet leave little puddles on the floor, my hair hands to my shoulders like little black snakes. I look dead already. Another long sleeve shirt and a pair of cut off denim shorts. I dressed nicer before he left, I was so different. My bed welcomes back with a slight squeak of the iron frame. The blankets wrap back around me like a second skin. Monster, my cat purrs slightly beside my face. It’s still raining, and I want so badly to fall back to sleep. To dream of something soft and light. In shades of pink and cream, with his hands around my waist, our noses touch, and our eyes match gazes. I want to be peaceful and easy.

There’s a rattling of my door knob, a familiar release of breath, the stomp of little shoes and the sway of an oversized leather bag. Jemma. Pretty, little tiny Jemma. She stops by a lot. To make sure I’m still alive, and that Monster isn’t rotting in a corner from malnourishment and that I still have electricity. I can hear her open my fridge with a ridiculous sigh, the clink of glass bottles against each other. I think there might be a pop tart in there somewhere. Possibly a half eaten can on ravioli’s. She stops in my bedroom doorway. She is so beautiful, a childish face, with dimpled rose coloured cheeks. Big brown eyes, long lashed and glowing. Her body is small, curved and compact. A see through band shirt hangs off her shoulder, revealing the lace bodysuit underneath, she is everything I have ever wanted to be. She loves me too, like I was a sister. She takes care of me and she deserves something back. She’s been through too much herself. I take advantage of her, the simple sweetness that she holds in her small chest. She kicks off her white oxfords and crawls in bed with me, petting Monster’s slinky black body.

“Hi Amerie.” She whispers softly, her high pitched angel voice tinkling against all the broken glass in my room. She wants to be close to me. The care in her makes me hate her. Why the fuck would anyone want to save me? Why does it matter? I know what she’ll do today; she’ll clean my apartment, and make me something light like rice to eat. She’ll bathe my cat and do my laundry. She’ll save my life once again and I won’t be able to say anything back. I am such a disgusting creature. Somehow though she manages to ease me into sleep with her feather weight presence. My face welcomes the pillow and my body doesn’t revolt against the plush of the comforter. Jemma shuts the curtains and turns off the lights and all I have is the sound of rain and the rush of blood from my head. I should be grateful, but all I feel is the sleep.