A. 17 is too old to binge eat Oreos.
B. if in the weeks following hot night he ate the sadness from your mouth, your aura turned lavender, your eyes went moony: you’re not in love. say it with me now. sing it like a gospel song, build a church with chicken bones.
C. you we’re alive before he kissed you. you are such goddamn sap it’s pathetic to share a skin with you.
D. don’t think anything has changed just because you feel wanted. you still watch horror movies when you’re sad until you lose your empathetic capacity and stop recoiling when the knife shoves and twists, when you hear bones snap, until bodies look like toys that just have but red stuffing inside and you’re so numb you think you’re in a video game.
E. you’re still not afraid of running with scissors.
F. you still get wet between the legs at the thought of stealing concealer from rite aid.
G. you are still fucked. his tongue will freeze against that heart of yours. don’t kick yourself.
H. you can kill yourself if you want, though, lol.
I. 17 is too old to repeat funny things you hear in movies and slip them into loud group conversations you feel left out of and pretend you made them up.
J. he has an ex, and he told you about the long entangled pain of her hands (probably more feminine than yours) around his heart for 3 years. how did it hurt the most when she finally stopped clogging his arteries with her acrylics? how did it hurt more when she finally let go? she wrote him a poem about the break up, you smirk, and look evil, and try not to laugh, cause in your mind it’s drawn in crayon and rhymes “lies” with “eyes”, and she spent nearly two hours on it, and posted it to her private instagram without context. fucking poem, yeah right. fucking writer, yeah right. you could write a love song about garlic bread and it would make him break down on his knees.
K. in regards to the aforementioned, you are fundamentally mean. you can take pills for that. or: you should take a blade to where that shit lives. you should carve it out and use the hole to hide a flask so you can swallow something to burn the venom when it starts to bubble up again. and it will bubble up again.
L. simultaneously you are kinder than you think. she makes him believe he’s lonely, and so he stays and loves her. you make him believe he’s lovely, and so he leaves and loves himself.
M. you hate your body because you think it’s too strong. you force yourself to eat pounds of sugar so the hem of your skirt will glitter like your eyes don’t, and boys will pay attention to that and not your droopy face. your stomach regurgitates. armor doesn’t work when you wage war with yourself.
N. keep your hair in braids. keep your entitlement on a yoke.
O. you’re old enough now to stop pulling out memories from the back of the fridge at the bottom of the leftovers and force them down my gullet even when their 8 years old and buzzing with mold.
P. you have stopped pretending you don’t have a gag reflex just to get rotten things into you, just to get a boy to swear you’re an angel. (the pretty white birthday cake. with the pink frosting between the layers, with the red frosting “a” in “Happy” smushed into the plastic tupperware like all splat! like red dead bird guts on the window, and everybody stops and turns their heads and is quiet for a in a minute long funeral made of wrinkled skin and blue eyeshadow as high as the eyebrow).
Q. I’m not living off of dead things anymore.
R. yes this is in first person now, I can feel the blood coming back to my toes, pins and needles has never felt this good, I think i love this body,
S. i think I don’t need a reason to live anymore, because I had to die so many times before I could cut this nostalgia out of me, this pregnancy of memories, and eat it raw again like placenta, that blood around my mouth is my search warrant for purpose.
T. And everybody has told me the meaning of life, everybody has told me I look beautiful in white, but I have never agreed with either. But I’m so beautiful in red, when I’m covered in blood. I go all splat, my neck snaps like in the horror movies i have gotten so good at being numb to, and everyone stops and stares.
U. it is a celebration not a funeral, or a celebration of a funeral.
V. but I can use this, this wrench was made for broken things, this fork and knife was not made for surgery, don’t treat yourself like a slab of meat
W. yeah you are not a prodigy in any right, yeah you can be such a bitch sometimes, yeah you have not had real friends in about 2 years, yeah he doesn’t want to fuck you, so don’t be happy. don’t be happy, that way you can cut yourself with this poem and heal yourself with it by the end. get your music on, lock your razor with your pressed flowers, this roadtrip is gonna take sometime, I need to know you’ll stay alive for the whole thing.
X. this is not a happy poem. i don’t know how to write a happy poem yet. this is a poem with both of my eyes open, not written at 3 am. i will write a happy poem when I’m fucking happy, so for now i feed this sad poem the buttercups and raw meat that clot your veins to grow it big and strong
Y. and this monster will come alive to pull me to the light someday.
Z. 17 is before the storm, as traditional as it may be. So run after the ice cream truck, eat all the Oreos you want, buy them with your pocket change, scrape them from the bottom of a glass of milk.
17 is too young to feel so hurt. 17 is to young to hold back like some boring cubicle crony. 17 is too young for all these rules.
— hey, happy birthday!! the big one seven lmao, what do u want? I mean like if u could have anything, what would u want?