Because now I can’t see glitter without getting a paper-cut on my heart. There was a piece of metallic ribbon in my hallway that I stomped on. There was a sparkle on my temple and he smiled and licked his finger to get it off and at first I smiled too but then I got that paper-cut-sting. He tries to make a joke, he says, “Well, now we can both hate glitter,” but I’m not laughing, not even a little.

And now the number fourteen makes me sick, just because that’s when it happened. Because fourteen is now the number for “when you’re happy and naive and asleep people will be out there fucking you over”. And it’s been a month, exactly a month, and I don’t know why it took so long but it finally hit me late last night so this fourteen feels like last sixteen when I found out. 

And suddenly, the last thirty days, it’s everywhere. It must have been there all the time, I just never noticed because it was never part of my real. But every day now, something, something, will karate-kick a paper-cut on my heart. And it hurts in a way that is shapeless and overpowering, and all I can do is sit still, as if the pain is too much water, and moving, even a little, will spill it all out. But then again, I know that this is too big to come out all at once; I’ve spent the last thirty days leaking. 

And breasts. Now I hate breasts. Even my own, and that makes me sad.



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I drink, I laugh, I smoke, I write.

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