Rosetta was never completely alone.

Her hunger today spilled over the edge of control. Through simultaneous relief and regret she had watched her hands bring morsel after morsel of food to her mouth until the fridge had been wiped clean of leftovers, yet her belly failed to be satisfied and her whole body ached for more of the nourishment it had hitherto been deprived of.

Recovery, however, would have to wait because her angel came to save her. Following orders obediently, Rosetta robotically climbed up the stairs and into the bathroom. Her angel comforted her, reassuring that her mistakes would be forgiven should she continue to follow orders.

At this point, the procedure had become an autonomous ritual. The simple stroke of two fingers at the back of her throat would suffice. Coughing and choking, she purged herself of flaws and imperfection, continuing on until her purified body could produce nothing but blood.

In the mirror she smiled not at the pale, thinning girl who stared back, but at the angel with its arms protectively wrapped around her. 

Rosetta was never completely alone.

The thought of it has possessed my mind incessantly the past couple of days; the reason for this I cannot trace. Other posts have been triggering and this time I feel like giving in to the trigger; maybe I should just pull instead of resist.

sanguine (adj) : cheerfully optimistic, hopeful, or confident.

Austere was her smile at first glance,

Yet doubt I felt for the lies that hid behind it.

She wouldn’t give my sanguine hopes a chance,

There was nothing left to do but destroy it.

Poetry is not my forte.

S1E1 

Gracy Hemingway was my first. We were only thirteen at the time. Four months had passed auspiciously and our nebulous change from friends to couple remained unnoticed by the rest of our God-fearing community in Virginia. For a while, it was to our advantage that two girls could spend so much time together sans suspicion. 

What I remember most is the morning after, like a tattoo burned deep inside my brain. Gracy and I woke up to a golden summer day in the shade of trees. Our parents thought each of us would spend the night at the others when in truth we hiked out into the woods and camped overnight. 

“Good to see you’re finally up, Elizabeth,” she giggled and kissed my cheek. Her effervescent happiness was contagious—I felt elated in her presence. With a swift move of her body she stood up and put back on her undergarments before lightly running away, telling me to wipe that stupid smile off my face and follow suit. Quickly, I made haste, dressing only up to my undergarments and tossing the rest of our clothes in a pile with the blankets; then off I went to chase my olive-skinned beauty into the woods.

how do i mix up reading “the birthday of jeans” as “baby jesus?” i’m not entirely sure.

Random Fact of the Day:

When I was little, I would hold my breath during every scene of a movie in which the characters were underwater. Two movies I specifically remember holding my breath to are Disney’s Atlantis and Pirates. The classics never get old.

Stopping felt too easy, but I credit a great deal of this to distractions that spared me little time to think of cutting and even less energy to actually do it. I still remember a night, here and there, that i lay awake in bed thinking, “I could go cut now,” but either I lacked the physical energy to get myself to the bathroom or the time didn’t seem opportune. 

Summer has been a small motivation for me (“motivation” feels like the wrong word to use) because hiding old scars will become a much more difficult task, especially with bathing suits…

I spent my friday night cooking soup for a friend who got cold (from me, he suspects). We spent the night eating soup and watching TV. I’m really starting to enjoy nights where we don’t always go out and look for something to do; doing nothing is nice, too.