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This diary entry is written by ‹Drunkie›. ( View all entries )
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Wintergirls.Category: (general)
Friday, 15 November 2013
06:52:29 AM (GMT)
I've done this once before but I lost it.
None of this is actually written by me.
I just took all the highlighted parts out of "Wintergirls" by Laurie Halse Anderson
and turned it into a poem.

It's not nice when girls die.
Empty is good.
Empty is strong.
For one moment we are not
failed tests
broken condoms
cheating on essays;
we are
lunch boxes
swinging so high our sneakers
For one moment everything feels better.
Then it melts.
"Dead Girl Walking", 
the boys say in the halls.
"Tell us your secret," 
the girls whisper,
one toilet to another.
I am that girl.
I am the space between my thighs,
daylight shining through.
I am the library aide who hides in Fantasy.
I am the circus freak encased in beeswax.
I am the bones they want,
on a porcelain frame.
I am contagious.
I am so hungry 
I am disgusting.
The sentences build a fence around her,
a Times New Roman
to keep away the thorny voices in her head 
from getting too close.
The ugly numbers made me cry.
This body has a different metabolism.
At 90.00 I will soar.
That's Goal Number Three.
"Give it up," She whispers.
Used to be that my whole body was my canvas --
hot cuts licking my ribs, ladder rungs climbing my arms,
thick milkweed stalks shooting up my thighs.
I inscribe three lines,
into my skin.
Ghosts trickle out.
hold on/
He couldn't stand me being sick.
Nobody can.
They only want to hear that you're healing,
you're in recovery,
taking it one day at a time.
If you're locked into sick,
you should stop wasting their time
and just get dead.
I know that it's me,
but it's not me,
not really.
I don't know what I look like.
I can't remember how to look.
"She's not in her coffin,"
"That's just her shell, not her soul."
"What are you?"
didn't make her skinny.
It made her cry.
We held hands when we walked down the gingerbread path into the forest,
blood dripping from our fingers.
We danced with witches
and kissed monsters.
We turned us into wintergirls,
and when she tried to leave,
I pulled her back into the snow because I was afraid to be alone.
Watching the food goes into his mouth, 
his jaw working like a grinding machine
and the gulping swallows,
boils up a panic inside me.
I am such a FAT ASS.
You know it's true.
I want to cut it all off.
of strange little girls
screaming through their fingers.
My patient sisters, 
always waiting for me.
"You have to work at recovery...
...suspended animation isn't much of a life."
"I keep thinking that if I could just unzip my skin,
step out of this body,
then I would see who I really am."
"What do you think you'd look like?"
for a start."
I'm hungry I need to eat.
I hate eating.
I need to eat.
I hate eating.
I need to eat.
I love not-eating.
She was puking on purpose,
so she wouldn't get fat.
She started to cry because she had waited too long
and the calories were leaking into her
and making her feel bad.
"Why'd you eat the brownies,
if you didn't want to get fat?"
"Because I was hungry!"
A breath of stream trickles out,
filled with the sobs of a grown woman
breaking into girl-sized pieces.
The want to jump into my mouth.
No, they want to roll themselves in butter and honey and jump into my mouth,
And then some Moose Tracks ice cream
and then some graham crackers
and a jar of chocolate frosting
and three bags of popcorn.
The voices slipped into this girl's mouth when she wasn't looking,
like a bug on a summer's night
that claws at the inside of your throat
right after you realize
you swallowed it.
The voices swam around her insides and multiplied --
echovoices that made a permanent home
inside the eggshell of her skull.
Two scrambled eggs
= 365
+(two muffins = 450)
"Eating makes me feel worse."
You want to know why?
Step into a tanning booth and fry yourself for two or three
After your skin bubbles and peels off,
roll in course salt,
then pull on long underwear woven from spun glass,
and razor wire.
Over that goes your regular clothes,
as long as they're tight.
Smoke gunpowder and go to school and jump through hoops,
sit up and beg,
and roll over on command.
Listen to the whispers that curl into your head at night,
calling you
and fat
and stupid
and bitch
and whore
and worst of all
"a disappointment". 
Puke and starve and cut and drink
because you don't want to feel any of this.
Puke and starve and cut and drink 
because you need an anesthetic 
and it works.
For a while.
But then the anesthetic turns into poison
and by then it's too late 
because you are mainlining it now,
straight into your soul.
It's rotting you and 
Look in the mirror and find a ghost.
Hear every heartbeat scream that
everysinglething is wrong with you.
"Why?" is the wrong question.
Ask "Why not?"
I showed her how I'd been making tiny cuts in my skin
to let the badness and pain leak out.
Cutting pain was a different flavor of hurt.
It made it easier not to think about having
my body and
my family and
my life
made it easier not to care...
And minute now my heart might just
My fingers reach through the screen
and comb through the garbage until
they find the home
of the shrieking chorus,
hungry girls singing endless anthems
while our throats bleed and rust
and fill up with loneliness.
I could scroll through these songs for the rest of my life and never find the
This was third-fourth-fifth grade Cassie,
the girl strong enough to punch boys
and crazy enough to throw up in the roses.
I would have followed her into a put of fire.
"I swear to be the skinniest girl in school,
skinnier than you."
Cassie's eyes got big as the blood pooled in the my hand.
She grabbed the knife and slashed her palm.
"I bet I'll be skinnier than you."
"No, don't make it a bet. Let's be skinniest together."
"Okay, but I'll be skinnier."
Adrenaline kicks in when you're starving.
That's what nobody understands.
Another goal weight. W00t.
Someone made a mistake because they
didn't figure in the snakes
in my head and the
thick shadows hiding inside the cage of my ribs.
"You're not dead,
but you're not alive, either.
You're a wintergirl."
You're a ghost with a beating heart.
I want to eat like a normal person eats,
but I need to see my bones or
I will hate myself even more
and I might cut out my heart
or take every pill
that was ever made.
I won the wintergirl trip over the border into dangerland.
The only number that would ever be enough
is 0.
Zero pounds,
zero life,
size zero,
zero point.
Zero in tennis is love.
I finally get it.
I stare at the ghost-
in the other side,
her corset bones waiting to be laced
even tighter
so she can fold in on herself
and over
until she disappears past zero.
I cut.
I failed eating,
failed drinking,
failed not cutting myself into shreds.
Failed friendship.
Failed sisterhood
and daughterhood.
Failed mirrors and scales and phone calls.
Good thing I'm stable.
I believe in ghosts,
but we create them.
We haunt ourselves,
and sometimes we do such a good job,
we lose track of reality.
I breathe in slowly.
Food is life.
I exhale,
take another breath.
Food is life.
And that's the problem.
When you're alive,
people can hurt you.
It's easier to crawl into a bone cage
or snowdrift of confusion.
It's easier to lock everybody out.
But it's a lie.
Eating was hard.
Breathing was hard.
Living was hardest.
There is no magic cure, no making it go away forever. There are only small steps
upward; and easier day, and unexpected laugh, a mirror that doesn't matter anymore.

I am thawing.

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