I can’t sleep. My father used to tell me to think of
playgrounds and sunny days to make all
The bad things go away. But these days it seems As though it’s always cold and raining, and dad can’t keep the bad things from ruining me, and stealing my pleasant dreams at night.
There’s only one person who can keep me up so late, and its the way his eyes say nothing at all that keeps my own open and flooded. It was nothing really, but a moment of disgust and realization that slipped through his kind demeanor. Just a moment, and he put his arm over his eyes like he couldnt look at me, like my youth and ignorance was blinding and exposing.
“youre psycho,” he had said.
And it pierced through me like a butter knife, and it just kept digging in until I laughed it off, and I had to help it pass right through me. Right through fat and muscle and rib and straight to my back where it struggled to poke through the last of my skin.
But perhaps I’m crazy. Maybe I am. Maybe I lied and said I was a little more than sane. When he calls me beautiful I just want to point out everything that’s not. No matter how hard I try to believe him, I cant get that picture out of my head. The picture of the blond with the perfect face, and the beautiful curves, debatably real but photographed with such a light that I ache to be a part of it. She’s every single thing that I’m not.
Every time I look at his face I see his warm eyes and a playfull smile, and I want to kiss every blemish he’s ever had and tell him that I love every single bit of him, right down to his toes. ‘Yes you’re attractive. You’re all I ever wanted, and you’re perfect to me.’
So maybe I’m Psychotic because I’d keep it. I’d let it grow and be mine, more than he ever will be. Maybe he’d even call me beautiful.
