I want to write a story with a genderswapped, fat Stiles. I want to write about how Scott never judges her for anything, least of all how she looks, because Scott is the werewolf prince of my heart. I want to write about her wearing baggy t-shirts and ill-fitting jeans from the men’s department because that’s what her dad knows how to buy her. I want to write about how she doesn’t even care because layers and baggy clothes hide her body and she’s never been one of the girls anyway. And she probably plays volleyball. And IDEK.
Sometimes I want to write stories about fat girls, and I get self-indulgent.
This is keeping me up at night,
framed glasses,
I am the framed victim
of the attention you stole.
Love isn’t always golden,
Sometimes it is a sharp and rusty edge
cutting our veins loose.
I don’t have much to lose to you.
This is keeping me up at night,
falling flat,
choked on ashes you spread.
I spread my legs and showed you the nightmares I had swallowed.
You smiled and showed me what you had snorted.
We are a horror story,
mismatched,
you have a death grip on my stomach
and you tie knots into my lungs.
A broken breathing pattern.
This is keeping me up at night,
a sinking bedspread stuck to sweating skin.
I am thinner than ever.
I cut my losses.
Please listen:
You have stolen my sleep,
sweet breathing.
I am bent on forgetting.
I’m sorry.
Here we can foreshadow joint suicides,
and I have started dreaming with open eyes.
Your hand on my skin.
Oh god! I want to sin with you and finally feel human.
This is what keeps me up at night.
In love with a sensitive springtime.
In love with broken backs and the blood stains on your fingertips.
It is impossible to live like this,
but I am in love with impossibility
and you’re an assasin I am following home.
